


Trigger Happy

by 0hHarvey



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games), Batman: The Telltale Series (Video Game), The Batman (Cartoon)
Genre: Batman: Arkham Knight Spoilers, Canonical Character Death, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Ex Wife Issues, F/M, OC, Plot w/ little porn, Post-Batman: Arkham Knight, Romance, Slow Burn, Two Face - Freeform, did, harvey dent - Freeform, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2020-10-11 00:08:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 40,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20536916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0hHarvey/pseuds/0hHarvey
Summary: “You don’t leave us again.” It’s more of a barely articulate invocation that she thinks is meant for themselves. But she sees the implications, indicative of their abrupt hold on her and the notable lack of distance. Her blood is rapid, though she’s uncertain if it’s their lack of proximity and the smell of their cologne, or simply the flighty light-headedness that muddles her comprehension.Two-Face/Harvey Dent x Oc (Original Character)





	1. Patience

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Batman character names belong to DC Comics (and so on) unless stated an OC which in case belong to the author, 0hHarvey. No copyright infringement is intended. Plagiarism is theft so is prohibited. Do not copy or create a reproduction of this work in any language without express written authorization of the author, 0hHarvey. Thank you. Please enjoy.
> 
> Two-Face x Original Character 
> 
> A/N: Technically takes place before and during Arkham City. Harvey and Two-Face are written as two personalities in one body, as presented in the game. Does not have to align with one universe.

He couldn't remember the point in time when it'd all developed into debauchery and unavoidable self-loathing. When everything Harvey Dent had maintained ended up crumbling into something much more inane and complex, reforming what was once a powerful, considerate man into something selfish and despondent.

When _'I' _officially became _'we' _and_ 'he'_ finally became_ 'they'_.

The last 1,460 days had been admittedly difficult, consisting of a legal system that brushed past the guilty and pointed an accusing finger towards the innocent. A life of scavenging, control and bitter revenge to those who opposed or challenged him. Of planning, heists, Batman and Arkham; usually in that particular order.

This life, of supposedly 'illegal' activities (_again_ consisting of four slow, painful years), was more than he'd initially expected. Slower than it should be; longer than he'd anticipated. It dragged on as though every hour was spent watching a damn clock and waiting for the bomb to blow at an unspecified time. It felt like two lifetimes much less a presidential term. He figured it due to his insanity rather than the lifestyle, but...there was also the idea that the lifestyle led to the insanity. Either or, he supposed.

But it sometimes bothered Harvey..._living_, that is. What had once been Gotham's shining salvation, placed on a people-made pedestal of aspirations and hope, was now a part of its everlasting turmoil...deformed by tragedy, loss and corruption. The moral of the city was faded, its destruction just as defined as the burns on his face. Seeing an idol, a man they thought was destined to change their lives, rot from the outside in had been a slow growing tragedy burning Gotham by the tips of its grimy fingers and watching the ache spread slowly to its hands and arms. A catastrophe...a _decision_.

Looking in the mirror, he sees himself; a man split between rage and contentment at the sight of his own face...at the equal division of his entire body. He struggles to still his right hand, a fist clenched with white knuckles...itching to collide with the reflection of corruption presented as a physical form.

Harvey snarls instinctively at his own irritation, turning away from the insane expression of his ruined eye as if in a beginning stage of denial. Yet _Two-Face_ was past that, and he'd already settled at the final stage of acceptance. He found it unfair at times, how Two-Face existed beyond his counterpart's rage. But as the second half of a divided man it was plausible to notice Harvey's flaws, acceptable to point them out and reasonable to attempt to get rid of them. Dent was still pointlessly angry, still keen on revenge and pain and the past that (stated so frankly now and again) should be forgotten. Perhaps he should 'cut his ties': kill his wife, Falcone, the Commissioner, Bruce Wayne. It was adequate...more than responsible when considering his line of work.

At the thought, he's disturbed, and though Harvey himself is still mentally in tact, he looks back at the power he'd previously maintained with an expression of outrage. The people he could have easily controlled...the money he'd been offered. The beautiful wife, the office, the friends, the ascendancy. Why hadn't he relished in it? What morals and virtues (obviously deteriorated with the left side of his face) had prevented him from taking advantage of what he had?

Plain disgust.

"Let it go." Very blatant words of the experienced and the wise, yet Two-Face has only existed for a fraction of Harvey's life. Since Falcone and his personal acid bath, to be precise. But the echo is faint in the tiled restroom (accompanied by an annoying overhead light that flickers every so often), and he's fighting something internally destructive with his mind. A self-loathing that's impossible to dominate, a constant whisper that makes his mind throb with aggravation.

"Why should I?" It comes out shaken, angry and hardly a rasp that his other half can barely understand. His body language is exposing pain, hatred and grief in its physical tension. And in an instant it changes, just as abrupt as the inconsistent light above his head.

"We can have all of that again...just with _force_." Two-Face tells him with genuine appeal, but it's beginning to seem mockingly repetitive with how little they've actually achieved. Murder, control, and money. The three points of interest anyone in his line of work strive for, all leading back to each other to make an endless circle. There is no end game here. There is no final move that lands him on an island with his wife and cash. There's no going back, either.

He's interrupted at a point of tragic realization, a balanced scale caused by disruption suddenly calming both men. The door is knocked on twice with a steady tap of patience that he recognizes keenly, and Two-Face drops the topic entirely. Harvey growls at the mirror a final time, hands clutching at either side of the sink before showing the counter an unintentional mercy by releasing his grip. They turn to leave, still torn and still opposing. Had they ever agreed? In the last four years?

Four years...sharing a body. He contemplates the experience briefly as he opens the door. Considering the pros and the cons as he noted to shoot that flickering light bulb later with a .22.

_It's not that bad_.

It's fucking terrible.

"Two-Face." The voice is too sweet, _too_ accepting..._too_ familiar. Sometimes he chooses not to trust her just by the amount of loyalty the girl's embraced. But it's been four years; how long does trust take?

She stands there, waiting for him in the usual position of intertwined fingers resting at her front and wedged heels placed together closely. He likes her dress today...it's a minor thing to know that he doesn't have to tell her what to wear. But it made her look young..._too_ young.

He changed his mind.

Tuesday was one of those odd people born to be patient, and was too quiet to be considered normal. Kind, considerate, trigger happy. She spoke rarely, always with good reason and little volume. But she sees his expression and feels the need to say something, exhibiting this look (whether it be of caution or concern he couldn't decipher), which was etched into the glossiness of her vision and the slow acting quirk of her lip. It was in the movement of her jaw as she bit down on the inside of her cheeks, and the furrow of her brow as she looked at him with an unmanageable sympathy that she knew he despised.

They shove past her, inconsiderate of why the brat had sought them out in the first place. They ignore the steady glances of observation on their back.

As they continue walking she follows obediently, pacing behind them slowly, like some kind of assistant who awaited a command. But, as unfortunate as it was, Tuesday wasn't anywhere near that level of indentured servitude. They treated her with some awkwardly formed respect, and in return she brought them a form of companionship they argued they did not require. _A Cheap Scandal_, The Gotham Times would headline. _The screw over of a lifetime_, Vicki Vale would say. He could distinctly hear the muffled laughter the reporter would hide behind her words should the knowledge of his right hand 'man' ever get out. The bitch.

"What do you want?" Tuesday quickened her pace to catch up with him, heels clicking in rhythm against the tiles.

His tone is strained and annoyed, enforcing caution. She's aware Two-Face is dominant for now, and in some odd way Harvey's been pushed to the back of their mind as if dormant until stated otherwise. Some occasions it's _'he'_...not _'they'_.

She doesn't say shit and it's such a goddamn bother. They shouldn't have to _look_ at her every fucking time she has to make a comment. But they give a sideways glance anyway, because Face is a sap and Harvey _knows_ it.

Her brow creases slightly as she demands his full and immediate attention with a tug of their sleeve, lips pursing in concern as Two-Face wonders how this partnership even began. How an information broker and former secretary managed to join forces with a crime lord, neither of them having similar goals. He wasn't even fucking her (which implied that neither has Harvey)...so how the hell is she still around, managing his money and time?

An indistinguishable groan escaped their coarse vocals as a reply...and she assumed it'd meant _'okay'_, though the assumption itself was indefinite. They look down begrudgingly as she stands in front of him, quick to place herself in their path like some authoritative house wife. They flip the coin, glancing at the clean end despondently before providing her their full, but hardly cooperative, attention.

"Your prestige?" She questions what bothers then and Face is tempted to deny the coin's choice and hit her anyway. If only for her rather accurate guess. Her eye contact never waivers and the temptation to just send a fist into her adorable little eye was nearly overwhelming.

"Yes." A gruff hiss of a reply, irritated and tired and sore.

"They fear you." Her hands raise to his chest, fingers fixing the buttons of their vest. She slowly smooths out the good fabric before raising their right wrist and adjusting Harvey's cuff-link. Face's sleeve is rolled at his elbow, and she straightens the fold as well. She was always gentle; never struck with momentary hesitation or edgy with visible discomfort. She fixes their tie as a final touch and they groan as though impatient.

She just smiles, because she somehow knows they both enjoy the attention.

Even when she thought about it, Tuesday didn't mind their face...their scarring, nor his burns. It defines their separation. It made them look distinguished, intimidating, experienced..._powerful_. She never looked away, never avoided their gaze. Never focused on one eye or the other. It was always honesty, always consideration towards their already deteriorating mental health. Always upturned lips with a painfully optimistic attitude. Always a gentle touch.

She didn't mind much at all, now that he thought on it.

But she did mind Harvey's painful self-hatred...and Two-Face's frequently erratic temper. And she'd express her distaste if it never ended with a one-sided argument; meaning he's yelling and throwing shit and she's just waiting out the storm.

It was frustrating since Two-Face enjoyed frequent compliance, though the rare moments of defiance were always arousing. But she'd never seemed interested; the brat. She's too young. Not blonde. Her tits are alright. She doesn't converse, half the time. Her personality is fragile and quite outside of heists and chaos. 

"Face?" She's worried, and it's odd because he hates her expression when she's so blatantly concerned. It looks gloomy and weak and honestly there's enough of that bullshit around this god-forsaken city.

"_What?_" Still gruff, still spoken without change in personality. It'd taken her a while to get used to asking Two-Face a question only to have Harvey respond. After a year it was hardly confusing...usually expected.

"Does Harvey want to talk?" She winds her arm around Face's, her free hand resting on his mutilated wrist as she did so; Tuesday toys with his overpriced watch out of brief fascination, more of a physical distraction. He notes how that's the longest sentence she's said in days, her responses usually quick or simple nods of the head.

"No." That request to speak to one or the other always pissed both of them off, though she apparently never realized exactly how much. She can look at them and know exactly what their next target's going to be, but she can't figure out that piece, apparently.

"..." His unsettling eye exchanges a look of tiresome anguish, narrowing before once again denying her unspoken request. Like a stubborn kid who took glee out of contradicting someone else's demands...but without saying anything. It was fucking annoying.

"He's not in." She rolls her eyes, still nowhere near as frustrated as she should be. Still patient, even with Two-Face _and_ Dent.

But she sees how deleterious they are...how horribly destructive Two-Face is and how self-extirpative Harvey tends to be. How endlessly different and continuously difficult they make sharing a body, and how often there's an inner debate over something as trivial as what to eat, though always ending with the decision of his coin. Tuesday notes how morbidly ugly the situation of fate is, how horrendous every expression seems to be when he flips that damn cent. And it's become unhealthy...it's made them sick in their obsession for duality and the flip of chance. Not fate..._chance_.

But, she also fears that she just doesn't understand. And she remains opinionatedly equitable in his luck-induced decisions.

It's been that way for four years.

"Rest." She says it strictly, a tone still bleeding of concern and dispute, making his mood heavy with irritation. She didn't mean sleep, or a break. She meant everything else, like flipping the coin and looking in the mirror with adamant abhorrence. Gazing at themselves (though she'd directed the comment at Harvey) with a hatred he reserved only for his other half. Not defeating his own moral with personal criticism, brought by the assumption that he was a partial monster of an unavoidable demise.

Her eyes wander as they stop abruptly, and she suddenly bites her lip at the livid discomfort Face creates with his exposed aggravation. It's a dusty look of stilled consideration, very blank as they look forward down the hall and stiffen into her hold. There's a darkness beneath Harvey's eye. There's an impatience in Face's. 

"We're fine." A low rumble, threatening to escape as a relentless yell.

"Please..." But she says its so damn sweetly. The second time the word 'please' is uttered tonight, though both for very different reasons. And she holds her breath as the coin is flicked up by the quick, practiced motion of his thumb. A movement she'd seen a million times, a movement she felt was less than practical despite its ability to make her insides flip in-harmoniously.

It lands to rest in his palm, out of her sight. And before long she's faced with expeditious anger and atrocity, a bare hand and scarred flesh at her throat with the sudden pressure of the wall against her back. For a second she's frightened, but the moment passes as it always does - quick to dissipate through her endless supply of equability. And suddenly, for the first time in several years...it strikes them as odd.

Her hands, small in comparison and delicate in appearance, lay gentle over the tense grasp placed over her neck. Her fingers find a grip on their watch. The hold of their rigid hand sent a throbbing ache along her soft complexion and insinuated the beginnings of splotchy blemishes; though bruises were the least of her problems. Face is close, inches away from her face...close enough to see the little cracks of burning dry skin on her lips and the small specks of long healed scars decorating the lower right of her jaw. She'd been nicked by shrapnel on her first government heist, barely dodging death with a wide spread grin and the adrenaline of a wild animal. She'd been caught due to carelessness, a rookie mistake.

They'd taught her better by now.

With a careful passiveness Tuesday smiles sincerely. The brat smiles like she understands anything about them. Their very blatant frown seems ineffective, only enhanced by the growl of momentary disdain caused by his stress-endured outrage. An upturn of lips in such a situation always managed to cause confusion, and often it made Two-Face pissier than he already was. But she couldn't help it...it was endless—much like her patience.

"Just for now." It's a gentle request this time, Tuesday having noted her error of demanding anything she did not control. And upon their softening expression she runs a careful hand through the thick salt and pepper stands of his hair, a look she enjoyed more than the she let on.

They glance briefly at her lips for the third time tonight, Face sighing under his breath at the action and relaxing into the slow graze of her fingertips. They groan as though aggravated, as always, presenting another sneer that made the bridge of his nose scrunch in irritation. 

"Whatever, brat." He drops her and her heels clack on the floor, her hands seeking the wall and his coat for balance. Tuesday exposes another quiet smile...more at the hushed comment of dismissal rather than the momentary freedom. They quickens their pace and she runs to catch up like before, shoes clicking into a slow rhythm at their slouched and defeated side. Her arm wraps back around their own, hand resting as always on the tattered skin of Face's wrist, as though he were to escort her somewhere nice. She softly hums an unfamiliar, old song as they walk, because she knows she's won...and Face snarls because he's aware he's caved. Harvey tells him he's weak. Face thinks Harvey's a tool. 

"Thank you, Face."

He ignores her, fighting back the 'you're welcome' that'd nearly escaped their throat.

* * *

End Chapter One.


	2. Coffee

When they're quiet, she worries. She worries more than when they're impatient and livid, throwing whatever is within reach and waving the gun toward every set of eyes. Because silence was the indicator of either Harvey reminiscing or Two-Face instigating inner turmoil, which would eventually turn into momentary depression or pointless anger. Both side-effects of a dual personality that she'd rather not challenge.

They're leaning on a rail with their arms crossed, elevated before his crew and staring unnervingly at the floor from the catwalk. They're grimacing at the echos the walls threw in every direction, unaffected by the useless banter the men around him spewed. They were all scattered into the usual groups, a few showing the new kids the ropes and whispering the warnings into their adolescent, unprepared ears.

The room housing them is old...dusty...and Tuesday wonders just how homely this place was to Two-Face's gang; whether they had somewhere else to go outside of this shit warehouse they've all called 'temporary' since the bleak beginnings of Dent's criminal career. If Duke, Miller or Jase, who've been in and out of jail for their boss countless times, actually had a family that set out a plate every night—plagued with the idea that their son or brother would eventually come home.

She's waiting patiently with a pot of coffee by the doorway. Her eyes, this unfocused brown, seem just as distant as Harvey's; they match the drink in her hands, sloshing against the glass and steaming from the rim. Tuesday doesn't really acknowledge the thirty men compared to her twelve cups of coffee...Even as more than half of them eyed it as she set it beside the disposable cups. Harvey wanted coffee...so she made coffee.

Two-Face hated coffee.

Similar to how Two-Face smokes. Harvey thinks it's disgusting.

It was a complicated business...being a right hand to a Gotham Rogue. Particularly one of a split persona that was dependent on an inanimate object. Even as the manly banter continues on, topics varying from sex to their last home-cooked meal, she worries over that blank expression on both sides of his face. She ponders over what they're thinking about...what Harvey's said to beckon such a long, mature conversation between the both of them. Or what Two-Face has mocked to stir up an argument.

She waits another minute, watching as the stack of styrofoam cups on the table turns into a single one with a rip in the bottom beside an empty glass pot. Tuesday looks back to Two-Face, still standing without movement and now catching the attention of his more loyal members; the others were still talking, most exchanging prison tales. since her last recruitment they've grown. Perhaps too large. Face always liked to keep their numbers steady and in handfuls. Easier to manage, she agrees.

"Hey Tues, can we get another pot of joe?" Duke raises his cup like a champion, grinning at her from the table with that welcoming smile one wouldn't expect a man of his stature or background to have. Six accounts of murder and four of rape. He has two bullets floating around his body and she's personally removed four. Truly a man loyal to Two-Face since their emergence four years prior.

She nods briefly before taking a final glance at her boss, grabbing the empty container with a quick grasp and turning towards the hall. She leaves the room to make more, brushing off the front of her dress for no particular reason. She is admittedly still unsettled by Two-Face's silence, and uneasy at the lack of movement. Their eyes glint back and forth, but there's no apparent consensus between the two of them. They keep at it in their head.

Walking into the makeshift kitchen, a rather dreary area, she sniffs the acrid smell of mold. Despite the gusty room's inconvenience it's grown on her, as most dreary things do. The sun burns through the cracking window, the tiny fridge in the corner hums comfortingly and Tuesday sets to work in producing another pot. She takes out the used grounds and tosses them in the usual can, pulling out a blue tub and refilling the machine with a filter and what was left of what she'd ground up that morning. Such expensive coffee in such a terrible little room. Such a ridiculously new coffee maker in a place that smells so old.

The kettle on the stove has the heat on low, but the steam is still prominent. She pours and watches it drip for a long minute.

Harvey likes it strong.

Two-Face hates coffee either way.

When she returns, one hand wrapped around the pot's handle while the other holds a standard mug by the rim, Two-Face is still silent. Fortunately they'd pressed their back against the nearest wall and stuffed their hands into their pockets...indicating that they were at least _alive_.

Their crew hushed up after a while as well, all beginning to stare, just as unnerved. Paranoid. And it begins to bother her more than anything had in a while. The feeling was similar to a moment of embarrassment, where it played in repetition like a record until your stomach clenched and your head throbbed. Where you held your breath and bit your lip, curling your toes as you wondered: why?

She felt the need to intervene, setting the pot back in its previous spot on the dingy table and approaching with their serving.

They're thinking too hard. Too much. Gilda. Harvey wanted his wife. But Gilda was always described as a meager distraction...she made him _weak_. Made him less of a _man_. She was the reason for his cowardice, the excuse made for his poor judgement. His face—visually ruined—had scared her away...his rage—endless—had numbed her tolerance. She'd mentioned divorce before Two-Face...a one-sided idea.

'You can't love what doesn't love you back, Harvey.' Said with mocking and malice...forced into the back of his mind like a parasite. Two-Face didn't know what he was talking about.

'She still loves _me_.'

'Let her _go_.' Demanding.

'You wouldn't understand.'

'Flip on it.' Harvey sighs heavily under his breath, angered by their argument and even more so at the attention of frozen trepidation received by their men...then impatience when finding that Tuesday was also beginning to stare.

Their left hand fell to the pocket of their well-tailored jacket, and everyone tenses at the sight of the coin: as intimidating as a gun. Even their girl pauses mid-walk while eyeing the subject of decision pinned between his index and thumb. They're all aware he's thinking...and he hates the idea of them knowing. It was bad to show moments of quiet. They were mostly flaky scum, but they could read a face—or half of one—better than anything. And they knew the look of misconception, a reason he kept his smoldered side towards the group as a sort of camouflage. A sort of defense.

But _she_ can read them both like an open novel. And he hates the look he gets from Tuesday, and Two-Face despises the expression of concern set on her features. Needs to murder her for such unnecessary nosiness towards his business and his business alone. But he can't; even without Harvey he couldn't. He just didn't really want to. That's why she was with him in the first place, wasn't it?

Harvey almost laughs, suddenly bitter. Realizing that there was more than the appreciation of loyalty for her. Hypocrite.

'You can't love what doesn't love you _back_, Two-Face.' Harvey retorts, solemnly...smug...aching. There's a laugh in his tone, a very apparent chuckle at the irony. A very grief-ridden response that burns them both a certain way in their chest. Like fire in their ribs. Like acid on their face. 

'Flip the fucking coin.' It didn't matter; he'd rape her if he had to. They didn't need consent. Harvey knows better. Face is a coward. Face wouldn't risk it, even on the coin.

They flip it, a heavy weight sullen on their shoulders as Harvey rethinks what was at stake. The sound it makes stills everyone in the room. A dramatic moment of suspicion, judgment, caution and fear all pointlessly plaguing the air with thick tension. It infected the warehouse with an energy more chilled than when Batman entered a room, fists ready. It almost floats, for a moment, as if his decision alone could defy gravity. It reflects the sun from the upper windows and catches Tuesday by the eye. 

It lands: tails up.

They all expect something to happen. They shouldn't.

Harvey could feel their brow twitch in sync with the bridge of their nose. Feel the curl of their lip, as well as the pain of regret stab mercilessly at the low pits of their stomach. Anger, hate, relief and smugness tearing at their chest. Expressed only as rage, causing several of his experienced men to leave before the storm, throwing open the door and letting in white rays of sunlight. It was still early.

He could use a cup of coffee.

He could use a smoke.

"Two-Face." They finally look down from the cat walk, good eye wide and exposed following suit, an indication that Harvey was in control today. Which was a very vague hint as to what kept them so tensely frozen. Her lips part, chest thudding a bit too quickly and toes curling as response. She dares to utter the name...breathing it out hushed to avoid attention and hopefully a fist to the jaw.

"Gilda?" Like a fucking book. She says it like they'd told her, mumbling under her breath to keep their men at ease, keep Harvey's wife an untouched topic, and keep her face intact. They nod with a bitter look of angst, threatening and harsh. Daring her to say something despite knowing she won't. Tuesday knew where the line was drawn. Very rarely did she severely overstep her bounds.

"Coffee." She suggests softly, holding it forward, soothingly. Patiently...considerately.

"Yeah." Harvey says it gruffly, broken, and looks to the rest of the room with an expression of impatience and mental fatigue. They turn away, annoyed. "Coffee."

"Early dismissal." She says it politely...and they're all hesitant to leave. Several walk out and more shift from one foot to the other as they stare at their employer's back, some tearing their empty cups into pieces as they awaited some uncanny announcement.

"Screw off!" They yell it over their shoulder, emptying the room within the minute. Like throwing a rock into a settled flock of pigeons, they scatter instinctively. She notices the pot is empty again. The last cup with the hole in it is gone and a couple lay crushed on the floor. Two-Face makes a disgusted noise as Harvey drinks his coffee. They watch peculiarly as Tuesday reaches under her dress, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from the pocket straps on her thighs.

They freely laugh this time, more Two-Face than Harvey, solid and ironic. The scarred half takes the single cigarette presented like a pen, comparing it to the coffee before giving her a side-glance and grinning with burned lips.

"Screw Gilda."

* * *

End Chapter Two. 


	3. Six Million

She despised this place. It was the stench of sweat, the loud spat profanities, the vulgar clientele — each deserving of a wanted poster for one reason or another. Women, half naked, danced erotically; tables were mildly crowded for midnight gambling and music played behind the scene of the bar. It was horridly drafty...fast-paced, loud, bright and uncomfortably cold in both the moral and physical sense.

The Iceberg Lounge: a failing business due to the debate of property between the city and Mr. Cobblepot himself. A 'safe haven' for criminals and the like, ranging from the petty crook to the Joker himself (had the clown not been banned due to 'rough play'). A situation involving mustard gas had apparently taken place—it was unappealing to the rest of the customers, she supposed.

Every visit to the shit-hole of a nightclub entailed a different performance from Two-Face, from the amount of drinks he'd have to the number of cigars he'd smoke to the hair color of the women that would inevitably adorn each arm.

She carried a specific feeling of resentment when they decorated themselves with the resident women...considering they posed robust chests and Tuesday can painfully recall stuffing her bra throughout high school. Physical appearance was hardly important, though...it was the ability these women had to make Harvey—of all people—chuckle keenly at a whisper concealed behind dainty fingers and painted nails. And they'd both smile...and Tuesday would eventually walk away to find some hopeless one-night distraction.

Despite her unspoken despise for the club's shitty ambiance and its mind-numbing effects on her boss, their visits usually resulted in transactions that involved the fattening of Harvey's wallet and an expanding list of useful connections. She couldn't complain...vocally, of course. Though the expression of disgust on Tuesday's face was an obvious tell. Two-Face ignored it; she could stand to have some fun. Maybe gamble or something, he'd give the brat a few thousand bucks and send her off.

Penguin smiles at their slow entrance, gesturing his umbrella towards the best available booth.

They look professional as always, thanks to her dry cleaner contact, while approaching Cobblepot. Greet, discuss details, thank, and then leave. Easy. Nothing complex, no strategic plan; just in and to the bar. Then out and back to base.

Scotch. The only thing Harvey and Two-Face would agree to.

And a shot of vodka with two fingers of whisky. Because god knows she needed it.

But the scotch and vodka could wait, having been set aside for business she had yet to be informed of. Though Mr. Cobblepot's involvement hinted at large orders of illegal firearms at some insanely awful price. Two-Face could afford it, and considering their recently successful heist Penguin would probably embrace them before leading him into the VIP area. His bottle-scarred eye illuminated with an aged glee distorted by the glass.

Tuesday found her assumption uncannily correct, her hand being kissed in an antiquated fashion (as Cobblepot was known for) before he embraced Two-Face like his own son. The walk was a slow one, despite their purposefully fast pace. And as she observes, distant from her employer and their chatty weapons dealer, she eyes the group of women coddling Roman Sionis at their elevated booth overlooking the lounge. His expression behind the mask, even when surrounded by beautiful specimens of the human race, is one of threat and distant boredom. There are billows of smoke that rise from the spaces of his mask. His cigar is halfway and his fingers are heavily decorated. He has an elegant tattoo that runs up his neck. She unintentionally locks his gaze and quickens her walk to intertwine her arm with Harvey's...as if it'd be safer. As if Black Mask couldn't just pull a gun at her for little to no reason.

She glances back briefly. He's still watching. His suit is pressed to perfection, well-tailored...sheen. It's white, pristinely so. And she imagines it'd look similar to Harvey's had his been kept singular and not divided. But she cowers at his smirk, and Tuesday is suddenly wary to the marrow of her bones. Cautious at the chill that stabs every digit up her spine.

Black Mask was an intimidating figure.

A much...respected man.

She turns to find Two-Face following her previous gaze, and is quick to exchange a curt nod with the owner of Sionis industries.

Thankfully Black Mask nods, more of a raised chin than an agreeing bob of the head. More smoke rises and his eyes are glossy the closer she looks. The exchange is unsettling, and Penguin is swift to intervene with matters of business and a tone of impatience. A tone that stated 'time is money' in the most literal sense plausible. The slime of his grin stands hardly concealed and the awkward strut of his walk is obvious in turn.

"The usual, I assume?" He asks as they sit, the girls who'd accompanied him leaving with their hands dragging over his shoulders before they finally depart. Their flirtatious laughter echoes through the noise of the lounge. There's this indescribable look on Cobblepot's face, one that held no consideration for human life and carried the distinct aura of cruel selfishness. Had he not been an old, vengeful, ugly hermit, he'd be her kind of man.

Penguin examined the couple before pulling an unwritten receipt form from his breast pocket. Like routine machinery, he signs it at Harvey's silent agreement. His gaze, partially distorted, wanders to Tuesday as she's dismissed to leave (more told to than offered). Two-Face hands her a thin clip of money and is quick to pull her ear closer to whisper a bit of information.

  
"No craps," he says. Because she's fucking terrible at it and they know it.

She smiles a bit. His hand lingers on her arm a little longer than thought proper. She stashes the clip somewhere tempting around her thigh before heading to the main bar. Penguin smiles at the idea, seeing as the girl isn't too old. Twenty if that duality-obsessed bloke is lucky, though he's assuming she's at least legal to drink. The last thing Dent needed was a charge of underage rape on top of murder, theft, arson and the like. The list goes on for all of them.

Either way he wasn't exactly sure why Two-Face desired her companionship, although he suspected that what little remained of Harvey's humanity became lonely at times — as well as his youth kinks. Penguin liked her, though, without throwing darts at her age. Quiet, obedient, pretty. Everything a woman should be in his demented, single-minded opinion. If she could cook...well, hell Harv, never let the broad go.

The blurred vision of his bottled eye watches as she slides out of the booth and heads for the bar.

"What's the damage?" Harvey glances over the receipt as he asks, Two-Face's left index finger is scratching impatiently at the tabletop as he notes the total isn't listed. The waitress sets a scotch by the edge and they down it a little too quickly. Tuesday's mingling; it made them uncomfortable.

"Eighty." Penguin says.

Eighty thousand. Right. They had twice as much in the left pocket of their slacks. No problem. Why were they tense?

"Right." He pulls and sorts the count, waving down the same busty blonde who'd delivered his drink for a second glass in the process. She winks and slinks away with the empty one gripped by painted nails. Gorgeous.

"How much, Dent?" Their eyes jolt up from the money clamped securely in their charred hand. Penguin maintains this smug, audacious smolder from the curling grin plastered on his scrunched face. The lines beside his eyes crinkle with humor as he brings a slicked match aflame towards the cigar set between his lips. He puckers the chewed end of his roll before inhaling and blowing a fog into their private booth with no consideration.

Harvey was disgusted.

Two-Face couldn't have cared less.

"Hm?" They groan out the inquiry, unsure by what he referenced. They never had a problem with cash up front before, they've been business partners since Dent lost his marbles and Two-Face surfaced. "It's all here, Bird. _Eighty_."

"Not the amount, you dense bloke." He exhales another round of smoke, cigar pointed as though accusing. "The _girl_. How much for the bloody girl you always have hanging off your goddamn sleeve."

Oh.

"Tuesday?" They pause, and then actually chuckle. Glancing down towards the bar with a look of casual humor; both Harvey and Two-Face find themselves torn between comic relief and disgust. Human trafficking wasn't their thing.

They flip the coin, quick to do so. Silver lands heads up, their eyes scanning the result inconspicuously before shoving it back into their pocket.

Two-Face takes charge of the conversation and blocks Harvey out before answering fully (he couldn't afford to loose a secondhand distributor like Penguin).

"Brat's not for sale." He says.

"Tuesday? Can't be more talented than Riddler's dames. Not with a name like that...and the facial scars. Small breasts, too. Hardly attractive." He inspects her body with the scrutiny of sour grapes. He dabs the cherry from his fag, littering the floor with pale ash. "What can she do?"

Harvey pushes his way back though to answer humanely, feeling the overwhelming need to murder the bird where he sat as Two-Face fists their hands.

_Never like anything that comes out of his fat mouth. _

_Don't say anything. It's not worth it._

_Fuck off._

"She has a great ass and even better aim. Still not for sale." He quirks out a careful smile, mild and suggestive despite everything. Two-Face refuses expression.

"Bloody shame." He taps the cherry away before pulling the eighty into the inner pockets of his coat. "Better tell Sionis. The blighter's been staring since you two walked in. No doubt figuring a price point, if not a suitable trade."

"Not for trade, either." They grumble it inaudibly, good eye narrowed bitterly towards the opposing VIP booth with a threatening expression.

"Ah, she's the wife's replacement." Penguin awaits some snippy retort, perhaps a violent response that, surprisingly, never comes. "A little young, but I'm not one to judge."

Cobblepot looks towards the bar, nearly vacant with the exception of his hired help. His tables were doing better, but not by much. Sunday evenings were always painfully slow, and with the city attempting a turf war for that Arkham City nonsense, business was blowing smoke. It doesn't help with Tracy screaming at the hired help.

Tuesday was gone; Two-Face had both eyes scanning the room. He's still tense.

They assume she'd gone outside.

* * *

It's considerably warm for an evening in September. There's a lack of humidity she's not really used to and a chilly wind that blows over every so often. The alley outside of the museum and its attached lounge is vacant and hardly illuminated, the widows of the club dawning bright rectangles of light that stretched over the concrete towards the opposing wall.

She swallows and drags the front of her heel over the stray pebbles decorating the back entrance, examining her white painted toenail exposed at the tip. The doors open behind her, laughing women and the unmistakable rustling of cash keeps her gaze direct on the floor as more light filled the once comfortable silence she'd indulged.

Footsteps topple down the stairs before steadying on the pavement. Chocolate eyes dodge over the light as the door closes and the approach is more confident. It isn't Harvey or Two-Face; neither of them walked so slowly…so relaxed. Like they were strolling to admire a gallery or examining displays. It was...easy.

"Tuesday _Jennifer_ Cassidy." Hardly the introduction she expected. She turns at the sound of her name spoken in such a disbelieving but sure tone, whisky swirling around the ice of her glass. Her hair is flopped lazily over one shoulder, her dress smoothed by a habitual hand that runs over the fabric. Her eyes gain intensity at the sight of him and some masked body guard, lip trembling slightly at the loss of words.

"M-…Mr. Sionis." His name comes out in a stuttered mess of nerves and uncertainty. Tuesday can hardly breathe; her chest feels uncomfortably tight. The glass is a little more slippery than it was a minute ago, and her hands are shaken terribly. She looks up towards the window and its pristine view of Two-Face's table, finding it vacant of her employer and his awkward hobbit of a weapons dealer. "You know of me?"

_Be polite_. A phrase repeated endlessly in the base of her mind. Black Mask will supposedly kill you for something as mild as a misinterpreted insult.

  
_Watch your mouth_. Her father had snapped the command hastily the day they'd been briefly introduced. That'd been years ago, no doubt. Some pre-teen in a frilly dress hardly makes an impact on larger figures. Sionis hadn't nearly been as successful back then. Just a man in a nice suit.

"You're a spitting image of your father." His hands are preoccupied. One rests limp in his left pocket and the other is firm on an expensive cigar he'd been nursing all night. Her own fiddle anxiously at her glass, fingers tracing the rim with a jittery tick.

"I've been told." She puts on a careful smile, the ginger one she often displays to Harvey for personal gain. Sweet and sincere, as practiced in the mirror to ensure she didn't screw it up. "He appreciates your business."

She adds a compliment to ease any tension, maybe smooth over her father's reputation a bit. No use in it, he'd see through her bullshit if she offered any. Then he'd have that two-ton idiot beside him snap her in two.

"A reliable source." He says.

Tuesday shifts uncomfortably once again. He's smirking under that damn mask, the gesture is evident. His voice is this accented husk that carries threat no matter the tone. His eyes shift observantly and her legs are shaking from anxiety.

She hums in content agreement.

There's a swift pause, cut short by Sionis' eager need to converse. It confused her; she wanted him to leave.

"You wear a mask now?" He asks as if impressed, the very nature of this conversation turning into an uncomfortable topic. Her tongue is bleeding beneath the bite of her teeth, and the alcohol stings as she sips her whiskey from a trembling cup, red staining the glass. He's noticed and laughs, cigar smoke wafting as he jolts back at her leisure.

He couldn't blame her...he was the Black_fucking_Mask. A king who'd once fallen to the Joker, only to get right back up and rule again. A crime lord who'd healed broken ribs like paper cuts, looked over a murdered girlfriend and treated the destruction of his monarchy as a minor setback. He failed one morning only to rule again by mid-afternoon. His hold on the drug world was nearly indestructible. His strategy and grit were impeccable.

"Excuse my trepidation." She exhales a suffocated gust of air she hadn't known she'd been holding. "You're an intimidating figure."

Her blunt nature was truly not helping. It was bad enough she had a social anxiety that could embarrass a mule. Being forced to have a conversation with one of the more threatening men of Gotham was not within her comfort zone…excluding Harvey, of course.

Tuesday glances around for her employer a second time, still wary despite knowing he wouldn't venture outside. Not until his night is over. Not now.

He's still chuckling, bemused at the honesty.

"A natural reaction…I don't kill appreciated associates."

"A mask?" She asks it warily, jumping over his last comment as though it'd never been said. She had the distinct feeling that he was lying through his teeth.

"Dent's heel-stepper. You wear a mask on heists." His shoulders shrug back in a stretching motion, smoke curling through the air in blown waves. It smells distinct: musky.

It's not difficult to recall his obsession with masks.

She must have made a face just then, because the guard behind him steps forward with an eager glint to his baby blues.

"How did you…know?" She asks like a child, without consideration. Tuesday's still completely terrified and he can barely contain his humored appeal. His eyes narrow from behind the skull in a smug and cheeky manner. There was something about the way Roman smiled, how you couldn't see anything beyond the teeth of the skull, but you could see the motion in his eyes. The movement of a criminal as he holds the upper hand.

"I read the paper."

"Oh." She suddenly laughs lightly, a hand coming to muffle the noise and hide the awkward upturn of lips. He takes note of the gesture.

But how did he know...who she was in the paper? If _she_ had been wearing _her_ mask?

"_Tuesday!_" The snap of such a familiar voice pulls her attention away from anything else (though she doesn't complain). One of the doors hangs open, Two-Face stands shaded with one shoulder leaning heavy against the frame. His glass of scotch is bone dry; she assumes he's already chewed down the ice.

"It was a pleasure, Mr. Sionis."

"My last secretary burned to death. When you're done with Two-Face, give me a call." He hands her a card, a little black one with the feel of canvas and 'SIONIS' printed on the front. Harvey makes a slow retreat inside, back turned and gaze wary over their shoulder.

"O-...of course." Her gaze wanders over to the doors and back, the sight of sanctuary nearing with every step. She'd rather die than have a desk job...she'd had enough of that in the past. "Thank you, Mr. Sionis."

"Don't thank me like you have a choice, kid." He puffs another cloud of smoke in her direction, body guard retrieving a second cigar as he notes the dying tip. "Your old man owes me damn near six million dollars. I'm not a loan shark...I expect my given share _and_ the interest that comes with it."

  
He walks towards the front of the lounge's attached museum, his guard tailing like a lost child. Her jaw goes slack, and Tuesday realizes just why he'd approached her so openly. Why he offered the job. Why he provided contact information. She mouths the phrase silently, throat dry beyond the help of gin.

"Six million dollars." It comes out raspy, and her glass shatters on the pavement.

* * *

End Chapter Three.


	4. Gilda

"Six is a lot of money," they say.

"I know." Tuesday sighs out the reply, wrapping herself in their divided jacket and sitting on the edge of the counter top. She's got their coat hanging off her shoulders. Said she feels a horrid draft through the complex, blaming the broken windows and unhinged doors of the abandoned apartments.

Duke and Miller downstairs, she thinks. Playing poker, for sure. Or go fish. She's not sure which she's seen them play more. All she knows for certain is that Duke never wins.

Harvey grunts while rolling his shoulders, left hand twisting at the wrist and clenching to loosen stiff joints as they count their leftovers from the last heist. Their bad eye catches Tuesday staring with an expression of distress. She bites her lip and curls the toes of her bare feet, shuffling her position around until she simply stands and breaths.

"Shouldn't this be his problem?" They grunt it. Harvey hasn't said anything since the lounge.

A valid point. Her father left for complex reasons. Debt or not, he had little to work with. She wonders over his train of thought, fingers tapping anxiously to some fast-beat rhythm against the window sill. She adjusts her posture before leaning back and clearing the feel of sand dragging down her windpipe. She walks back into the little kitchenette where they can hear the balls of her feet meet the tile.

"He's in hiding." She says it past a raspy cough. They assume it's just nerves.

"And?" They shove the cash to the side, scrutinizing her expression. Everything about their girl says nerves and secrets. They hate that.

"He can disappear as well as his clients." She says, though more to herself than the two of them. She's speaking more and more nowadays. They can't tell if it's annoying or informative.

"Your point?"

Her father mainly prioritizes knowing economic worth and bank funds, selling off numbers to higher ups who'd like knowledge of how much is where and how often. It makes the job of robbing Gotham easier, she'd assume. An information broker, if you will. He plays with big numbers and even bigger people, and he's well-known for his figures and often correct predictions.

Full refund if it's a miscalculation, he'd say.

Nothing in this city is ever foolproof, there's always a loophole.

This isn't math, Tuesday, it's problem solving.

Warren Cassidy – on the other end they refer to him as '_Fade_'. He prides himself on a secondary form of employment that involves bountied individuals with the need to disappear just as her mother had to. His own wife was the first client, in need of forged documents and a clean slate. Then a second co-worker of his requested a staged death. Payoffs to coroners and morticians, thugs and fresh-meat criminals straight out of high school had loaded pockets. It's been so easy ever since. So painfully smooth. She's curious as to why he borrowed money – from Sionis of all people.

But the problem was that Harvey knew all of this. Two-Face had known her background already. And what they didn't know, they looked up with discomforting ease before even considering her a reliable source. Face knew her father's name and multiple professions. Where she'd attended high school, her home address, her most favored yogurt shoppe. They'd known forever where she'd started college and at what year she'd gotten her degree. They knew everything about her, whether she liked it or not.

"Face..." She scratches her leg and tenses for a very brief moment, voice feeble. There's obvious self-spite curling at her fingertips and causing constant discomfort. A physical guilt that was pinching at her nerves. They could see it in her face, the graceless frown that pulled distastefully at the edges of her lips and the shifty movement of her brown, brown eyes.

"Get on with it." They snap and lean back in their chair. They light a cigarette, resting an ankle on a knee. Neither had time for this...they had a heist to plot out.

"Fade." She mumbles. She clenches their coat closer, so much smaller in comparison. She stands in the kitchenette, cold and seeming senseless. Her cocktail dress is all out of sorts and her hair is an erratic mess. They've never seen her this fucked up. They've never seen her this small and timid. Face wants to touch her. Wants to run a hand on her hip and figure out the texture of that dress. Wants to know if her skin's still cold under their jacket.

"Everyone's heard of Fade. Everyone ironically knows who he is." Fade stopped caring about his identity years ago. "What's your point?"

They stand up and walk over. They loosen their tie in the process. She's tiny out of her heels. She's tiny in her heels. She's chewing on her nail and they're waiting on her to look them in the eyes.

There's this elongated pause that they absolutely despise. It annoys the piss out of Two-Face, and Harvey can't help but tap his foot to express his impatience. She needs to get on with it. They hated a lack of information and that's exactly what this was. They lean against the wall...waiting.

"If you're gonna' tell us he's your old man, we already-"

"He helped Gilda leave Gotham." She interrupts him monotonously through dry lips, lungs contracting out of uncertainty. Her hands clench at the cuffs of his jacket hanging loose on her shoulders, and she's re-opened the cut in her tongue with the same teeth that'd inflicted it. Bitter iron overwhelms her taste and Tuesday scrunches her nose at the sensation.

Gilda. _GildaGildaGilda_.

It always came down to _Gilda_.

"He made sure Harvey would never find her."

There's another dreadfully long pause that she wants to fill in. It's clouded with tension, thick with discomfort and inner panic. Since the beginning, this drowned fear of Gotham's fallen saint has kept her lips sealed and interest intact. Her loyalty to Two-Face was unmatched, rivaling that of Harley's towards Joker. She wondered exactly how far she'd go. She wonders if they'd slap her as badly as the clown would. She wonders if they'll leave her to die in the same fashion. She wonders how far his scars travel down their chest. She wonders if they'll kill her.

They turn away from her and run a hand through Harvey's hair. Those bits of grey tell stories. Harvey's old pictures in the papers are so much younger. Smaller. Less of who they are now, she thinks.

"You want a loan?" It's a toneless grunt, pushed out by Two-Face rather than Harvey. They roll their back off the wall and stuff their hands into the depths of their pockets as though bored. Face glances towards the money on the counter, gesturing as though she were still welcome.

They'd need to take out another few locations and trucks to make up the difference. One bank wouldn't even carry that on hand. Six million fucking dollars isn't a one-time shot.

"No." She bites her tongue again and fiddles with the ends of her hair. Red stains her lower lip and they scowl looking at the color. Face wants it _off_.

"Then what‽" They raise their voice, holding back expeditious anger. They were always unpredictable in their moods....their responses. 

"I'm not sure." She mumbles her words. Her eyes are looking everywhere but at them.

They walk forward and invade her personal space. They tower over her with a significantly intense aura of intimidation. Their body stiffens and their snarl curls deeper at her lack of cooperation. They'd figured they could trust her, Two-Face couldn't care less...but Harvey was quiet. Unnaturally so.

Because of stupid fucking Gilda.

"How about we pay you for a service?" Face asks her and Harvey's officially deeply recessed. He needs time to process. He needs a minute to accept her answer. This is Face's ideal opportunity. This could play in his favor.

"You already do." Her brows crease in confusion. She naturally closes the distance, her hands adjusting his loosened tie as if she's not in the deepest shit ever. As if the debate of her life weren't happening in the immediate moment. She straightens him out, her left hand smoothing the thin fabric against their chest. Face grips her wrist and she tenses noticeably, eyes darting up to meet his with that underlying panic she was trying to desperately to hide.

"Different service," he mutters. "Spend the night with me. Not Harvey. _Me_. Make it a routine and I hand Sionis the cash myself."

That silence again. A knock on the half open door leaves her startled and Duke takes a very long look at the situation, the cigarette between his lips barely more than the filter. The man takes two steps back and signals a dismissive wave. Face gives him a look and in that same instance Duke is gone. Tuesday sucks in a breath.

Her mouth opens and closes. Her eyes don't tell him anything. Her lips press and purse and he wants to kiss her. He can barely see her looking up through her lashes. Her wrist is cold in between his fingers. Her hands are shaking and...is she crying? She's fucking crying. _Great_. He made her fucking _cry_.

"I'm not a prostitute." He never said she was. She's trying to pull her hand away. She's trying to turn her back on him. _Like hell_.

"No, but you're my girl." Face says it like she's obligated even though they both know she's not. Face says it like this is the norm. And it is. They're the only criminal in Gotham with eye candy that's not fulfilling the _role_ of candy. She's the only side bitch in the criminal underground that's not willing to fuck him for money. Regardless, they stay away from the whores because Tuesday is always on his goddamn sleeve. What the fuck are they even doing?

"One of many," she bites back. What the fuck did that even mean?

She takes a step away, pulling again. _Like fucking hell._

"Tuesday. We're offering you a way out."

"Harvey wouldn't agree to this. Gilda-"

"Gilda can go fuck herself! What'd the _bitch_ tell you, anyway? We at least want to know that." Face growls it out and grabs her by the hair; the opposing hand leaving her wrist and holding her jaw. They direct her attention in a very swift movement, tense and aggressive. Her hands set themselves flat against their chest. She's on her toes, all watery-eyed and flushed. Her fingers arch a bit over the folded knife in their breast pocket.

Tuesday didn't move, it'd be unwise. They compare her reaction to a deer in headlights, wide, glossy eyes and shallow, quick breathing that felt cold past her lips. The tense muscles that prepare for pain and the panicked curl of her toes indicate trepidation. They'd seized her threateningly a hundred times before, and every time there's the obvious expression of fear for only a brief moment. But even now, as she's done every single time in the past, Tuesday breathes deeply and manages a calm state of mind. Her body goes lax. She makes eye contact. She blinks away any residual tears. Her patience is unfathomable, even after so long.

Her skin is smooth and freezing. They can feel the slightest tremble in her jaw before it clamps tight. Her perfume is mild and reminds them of a trip to Spain year prior. Her lipstick is thin and hardly noticeable under the little smears of blood. Harvey wants to wipe it away. Face wants to make her warm.

"I promised something unreasonable." It comes out soft behind a sigh, fast and without hesitation. Their eyes run up and down her face, scanning. They release their grip before stepping back, hands slinking back into their pockets. Her hair's even more of a mess now. Her concealers all botched by his grip. They notice the bruises half-healed adorning her neck. Face recalls the instances he'd put them there by threat. Vividly. Almost regrettably. Almost.

"Like what?" Their tone changed. It's level...quiet. Almost as if they were debating their options on how to handle the situation. Harvey was finally resurfacing, and for once it wasn't something she'd feel relief over.

Tuesday knew where the line was drawn, but today she was willingly overstepping her bounds. The situation has escalated. The events in the last twenty four hours have spiraled their routine out of control. She unwittingly pulls Sionis' business card from her bra strap, fingers fiddling with the corners.

"That I wouldn't let Harvey die."

She steps back, her bare feet pressed firm on the tile floors. They're cold, uneven as well. The grout is all fucked up. She briefly imagines a life with flat floors and a soft bed, a kitchen and a laundry room. Clean sheets every night. She hangs clothes to dry and there's a lawn that eats up a water bill and flowers native to a place that's not Gotham. She makes dinner and Face sits at the table reading a newspaper, pissed off about the liberals. They launder money and torture whistle-blowers and corrupt politicians in their basement. They drink wine and listen to music in their living room. Of course that life includes Two-Face. It would always include Two-Face. It wouldn't be a life if it _didn't include Two-Face._

But she knows they didn't acknowledge that possibility. She's aware their goals are not aligned. They didn't love her like she wanted them to. Harvey never would.

"Unreasonable? _Unavoidable_." Two-face chuckles, fiddling with the coin in his pocket. His eye wanders towards the distant corner of the room with their nose scrunched in contemplation. Trust was now an issue, though it'd never been before.

"I'm aware." She says it before a held pause. "Gilda still loves him."

"Fuck Gilda." A phrase so frequent that it began to sting, almost like an insult. Spoken with careless honesty by one man and untruthful spite by another. Harvey held on to his once fruitful relationship with a bitter regret; he still loved Gilda, there was no doubt in her mind. It was recent that he'd just let her go – but this would cause doubt to resurface. Two-Face resented that; they had to stay focused. This was all excessive bullshit he needed to step over like a casualty.

She wasn't going to stay with him. He can see it in her demeanor and hear it in her voice. She'll run over to Sionis and that shit for brains will catch on quick what kind of asset she could be. Rich, criminal sociopath with a fucked up face? She has a type. Half of them hates to think that.

Face laughs for a second.

They needed to kill her, get it done with.

'You wouldn't.'

'It's necessary,' he argues.

'You'd rather die.'

'She's dead weight.'

It startles her, how swift the tides change. Her eyes cross staring down the barrel of his .22. She loses breath at their forced look of derision. They take a step closer, the gun lowering to her forehead and touching at a delicate spot between her eyes. But it'd always been this way, whether Tuesday would admit it or not, ever since she'd seen that expression of determination and complete insanity. The day she sat on the side of Harvey's hospital bed and watched him snarl at an internal debate. And a different man (his secondary person...a new individual with grit) glowered at her, raging at his confinement within the psychological ward of St. Jude's hospice.

Gilda cried. She'd cried her blue eyes gray, and then left. And Harvey had never seen her after that. Apparently Cassidy had. Apparently _Tuesday_ had.

Tuesday has been hit, and thrown, and kicked and cut. Grazed by a bullet, and once stabbed. She'd had a bomb blow up in her face. She's been petrified with fear and pushed over the edge of sanity. Two-Face has slapped her, choked her, and pulled her hair countless times...but he'd never pulled a gun. Never aimed with set intentions and not once seemed so threatening. Not like he was now.

Harvey wasn't in control. Harvey cared too much about Gilda's whereabouts to just retire his only source of information. She didn't think he'd have killed her either way.

Harvey was a nice guy.

"You're becoming a liability, _brat_." Face says, tapping her forehead with the pistol in an uncomfortably steady manner. Their coin comes out, glinting with a stare of indifference as he holds it up.

"I am." Her fingers run subconsciously over the black card in her hand, tracing the large 'S' of 'Sionis' in sheen silver letters. He catches that, ignoring Harvey's pestering to look his henchman in the eye.

"You're not working for that scum." The bitter irony in that statement stung. She might die here.

"Okay."

They lower their gun and scowl, bad eye vicious with intent. Good eye sullen and somewhat distrusting. She wonders, briefly, what she'd just done to their relationship. Could she even call what they had a relationship? Did she even matter, in their perspective? It burned to think of anything so dramatic. But those were the realistic questions, and they were necessary.

He flips the coin. Her breath hitches in her throat. Was this what her victims felt like? Seeing her aim at their forehead? Does Face feel the way she does when she pulls that trigger? Weightless? Devoid? Free? Happy? Oddly enough, she forces herself to smile. It was the usual small, sincere, patient upturn of lips – rancid by the watery fear in her eyes and stiff body language. Her lungs pace erratically and her hands shake in fists gripping his coat. Her throat feels raw. She could die. He would actually kill her. Her body would rot in his jacket in the abandoned motel and The Bat would find her remains, being hot on their trail.

She's on the brink of tears again, and that makes them regret ever flipping the coin.

_She's beautiful._

_But where's Gilda?_

It lands: tails up. Two-Face turns away from her, pocketing his cent. She breathes, idle and suddenly calmed. Harvey notices, and sets their gun on the counter as some sort of mock reassurance. Because Tuesday was never terrified, but, scared or not, she always seemed fine in the aftermath. Was this what guilt felt like? Looking someone in the eyes and regretting the last ten minutes because of a simple expression? Because they made a girl cry? Or because they made _their_ girl cry?

Harvey needed sleep.

Two-Face needed a smoke.

"Figure out your plan..." They groan, entirely frustrated. "...before we change our mind."

Face grabs his smokes off the table and goes down to meet with Duke. The door slams so hard it reels off its last hinge and hits the ground a minute after they're gone.

She packs her things, some money off the same table, and leaves down the fire escape with Sionis' card still in hand.

* * *

End Chapter Four.


	5. Negotiation

Two weeks. Two fucking _weeks_. 

Face is chewing an unlit cigarette and tapping their foot on the dry-rotted wood floors. She's out and about, and hasn't called any of their burners; running around probably fucking Sionis to pay her debt. Not to mention the indecent amount of weaponry she fucking stole from their warehouse. The ungrateful, unloyal little _bitch_.

_ I'm not a prostitute _, she'd said. All sad and fragile. Whatever. 

They wonder why they haven't considered killing her again. Mid-reach to the coin and they feel one of her hair ties in the same pocket, thinking about the braid she lays over her left shoulder when she's making food. Their fingers are twisting it around and the coin is briefly forgotten. Half of Face thinks that finally investing in a condo or a house will bring her back. Make her forget all about this mess. Maybe finally creating a casual living space rather than constantly changing their base of operations between a slummy warehouse might persuade her to return the 6k worth of ammunition and stick around, as risky as it could be. The other half has his mind is so wrapped around Gilda that it's fucking sickening to sit and listen to his blithering. 

She'd have her own room, a kitchen to fiddle around in, her own weapons safe, maybe even a second bathroom for body disposal. She could put together her own little office space for all her paperwork and fraudulent accounting. And they could have a real fucking bed outside of a hotel room. They keep flipping the coin now, eyes glazing over Gotham's horizon towards the bay, leaning back on the desk of Harv's old campaign office, boarded up and condemned. There's still police tape hanging off the doorway. An inch of dust on everything. The stairwell had chains on every damn door. The entire office up and moved buildings after Harvey's "psychotic breakdown" and the following federal investigation.

They catch a glimpse of the secretary desk outside the doorway and Harv thinks about the first time he met Gilda. Face thinks about the first time they met Tuesday. Both recollections are short-lived as Duke peeks in, tapping the door frame with the barrel of his gun. 

"Boss, Jayce says Tues was seen by some of Penguin's guys at Iceberg. She was..."

There's a very pregnant pause. There's a boiling sensation in their blood that follows it. They spit their cigarette out, unused onto the floor. 

"Fucking _say it._"

"She was with Black Mask." Duke decides that today is a bad day. Another to follow the last couple of stressful weeks. 

The boys haven't done shit outside of look for Tuesday. No criminal activity or income in days. No updates from their plants or resources. Face hasn't bothered planning anything with the excuse of needing his right hand woman. Told them to focus their intel all around Tuesday and plan their own gigs on the side. Duke can host a decent heist without Face, but Tuesday...Tuesday makes it an art form. She never came back empty handed, always under the nose of the Bat, always willing to announce their message. Clean execution. Heh - literal executions. Duke liked her. Most of the gang liked her. Even Miller would defend her in shitty bars at 3am when half of the crew was piss drunk and felt like throwing words. She'd hired half of them on Face's behalf, after all. She taught the inexperienced idiots the typical methodology of The Bat. Really, she seems like the glue. 

But Duke knows she's making shit decisions. She can be dramatic. Tuesday's known for her impulsive decisions despite her patience. He can see her thoughts behind what she's doing...but he doesn't think she's thinking straight. 

"Of course she's with fucking _Sions_." Face grits but Harvey doesn't say shit. 

They know they've been slow to act, initially waiting for the bitch to show up at their doorstep, silent and apologetic with either money or information. They thought about beating her, a pistol across the face, and then making an invasive move to get Gilda's legs out of his mind. Replace her with someone...better. He would finally use Tuesday for something more than chores and robbery. Instead it was a painful week with no word; they spent the days pondering on how to move forward without her. They've spent three years depending on her to be competent and taking out anger or unrelated failures on her physically. Three years of Face telling Harvey that he could take advantage of her sexually. Three years of Face not doing shit and instead watching that little twitch in her eye when he brings home a prostitute. 

Not to mention a couple cases of getting their shit kicked in by Batman (with his bullet-proof bullshit armor) and ending up in Arkham, relying upon her to secure their escape. 

A lifestyle without Tuesday was unsettling. Entirely uncomfortable. Disadvantaged and foreign. 

And who the fuck is going to make them food? They've ordered in food every day for two weeks. Two days were pizza and wings. One day they got a fucking hot dog from a cart outside the stadium and the vendor was so fucking petrified he didn't even charge them. 

With all this distance they're starting to think they had a 1940's marriage without the kids or the picket fence. Tuesday always made them food, and even baked on rare occasions. She wasn't an obsessive nut like Harley, holding bakeries hostage for wedding cakes or restaurants for reserved meals. No...she was no Harley Quinn. She wasn't coiled around them every waking moment, loyalty so rose-colored she trips on herself while lacking sanity and direction. She was patiently aware of her situation. She asked for this. She knew she'd never come before themselves or the coin. And she still stayed; still ran his errands and organized their men. Still made rosemary potatoes with chicken and asparagus. Still ran across town to that overpriced healthy organic store for vitamins and eye drops. She baked their fucking henchmen birthday cakes for _fuck's sake._

They think of when she makes them coffee. How she's cautious not to drip the moisture from the old grounds on the floor. And they're always leaning on the door frame, doing absolutely nothing, fully aware that Harvey can make his own damn coffee. But Face likes to watch her run around doing menial tasks. They like how she tiptoes about, humming old music that they can't stand, hands fiddling with counting money or taping down floor plans. They like watching her unpack groceries and clean her guns. 

Harvey thinks of Gilda. When she'd cook casseroles or flip pages in her reading. How she'd sit in her pencil skirt at the kitchen bar and highlight documents for her studies. The little pearls on her jewelry that she fiddled with in concentration. Face likes to think that Tuesday would appreciate a decent countertop to open a book on and sit at for a couple hours. Maybe she'd like a diamond or two. He doesn't think she's fond of pearls. 

Harvey's an antiquated soul. Face may be a bit more modern. 

Becuase as much as Face like watching her do stupid wife shit, he loves watching her from the passengers seat of a stolen Cadillac, Duke at the wheel, flying at 90 miles per hour, her ass at his shoulder as she stands through the sunroof in her heels and slacks, firing a goddam rocket launcher at the cop cars tailing them. He loves the way her body jolts when she holds down the trigger an M4. Loves the way she laughs as she stumbles from the recoil and the abrupt turn down 7th street. They love how much she comes _alive_ in action. He loves that toothy grin she thinks she hides from him. 

They were going to kill her, two weeks ago...get rid of that grin. Harvey says something about Face being a stupid tool. Face doesn't say shit. 

"Bring her back to us." They can see Duke fiddling a bit with the tattoos on his arm, scratching at the back of his head before stuffing his gun into his belt.

He hesitates, eyes squinting as his tongue runs over his teeth. He glances out the window. "A-...Alive?" 

"Yes fucking alive!" They manage to overturn the desk, arms flinging back and outwards. A cloud of dust scoffs into the air and Duke is immediately out of sight.

And now they have no fucking desk to lean on. And no girl to make them coffee or sort their shit or kill the cops.

"Distance makes the heart grow fonder," Harvey says, coin running over and between their knuckles. "But now Tuesday wants nothing to do with us."

They keep seeing Gilda and her horrified little face, eyes lit with fear as she removed the bandages from his burns, nail polish vibrant as she gripped the edges of the hospital bed in grief. Her pathetic tears.

"You're a fucking mess, Harvey." Tuesday never looked at them like a monster. 

"I'm in better shape than you." And yet she ran off...same as Gilda.

* * *

"Mr. Sionis." She stands at the edge of his table, eyes running along the lengths of his arms, both draped over the shoulders of four women seated beside him in the booth. His women don't giggle like Penguin's or Harvey's. They look as sinister and as deadly as he does. Just far more decorated. 

"Ms. Cassidy. I didn't think I'd hear from you so soon." He snaps his fingers, like a god, and the women depart, unperturbed. As though they weren't real. Ghosts. "Have a seat." 

A command.

Her eyes wander at his usual body guard, but she averts her staring out of respect. She gently sets a designer handbag of sorts on the table before seating herself, knees together and hands in her lap. Her palm grazes over her legs to smooth the fabric of her dress before pressing an sd drive beside the handbag. 

He eyes the clunky monstrosity of a purse on the tabletop. Specifically the little gems along the lengthy strap. The fabric is some sort of white animal skin with a gaudy logo on the front as a clasp. It looks like a baby seal rolled around in diamonds and died.

The sd card is more his style. 

"The bag is worth half. There's one in cash inside," she says. 

"One...?"

"Million." His eyes narrow. She can see where the mask becomes skin and where the skin's a different shade. He takes a swig of his drink, the rings on his fingers reflective and brilliant. Some of them are diamonds. Others have meaning. She remembers that Harvey still wears his wedding band. Unimportant. 

"So one of the six million? Is that what you're playing here?" She crosses a leg, pulling her hair over her left shoulder. She tries to seem presentable. Tries to keep herself tactful despite the severe shaking of her limbs. 

"Yes. Plus the bag." She clears her throat. 

"And the sd?"

"Data on the Red Hood's physical financial stash. Including his last two hundred transactions." She waves down a waitress, ordering briefly and barely over a whisper before handing over one of Harvey's credit cards. She returns her attention to the eyes behind the mask. 

"You gotta be fucking kidding me." Sionis eyes Dent's card as she hands it off, a smirk playing on his lips. He runs as hand across his skull, seemingly disappointed. She can barely see it in the wrinkle under his left eye.

"I was told he threw one of your doubles out of a ten story window. I thought it would be valuable to you," she pulls a tablet from the purse and sets it in front of him, index fingering the sd card further in his direction to confirm the data. 

"Jesus Christ." Sionis hacks a dry laugh and slams the table with his free hand, glove tight in a fist. Her heart stops for a moment. She runs a quick finger along the holster on her thigh. All instinct and panic. She can feel her pulse drum in her ears and her shaking is painfully evident now. She must be calm. Her father told her to be calm. 

"I wouldn't short you, Mr. Sionis." Her hands are a mess, trembling as though below freezing. Her mouth is dry. She readily anticipates her drink. She can't even remember what she ordered.

There's a long pause. The noise of the bar is slow and the pianist is delightful. A helicopter goes by, and Black Mask is thinking. He leans back, attention elsewhere, an elbow on the booth and an ankle on his knee. He flicks some ash off his cigar. He sighs smoke and liquor. 

"I appreciate this intel, and I intend to use it...but your old man doesn't owe me six million dollars. With how much I paid him for the last job, I doubt he'd ever need to borrow money again." He takes a longer drag this time. Eyes watching the other patrons at the lower bar, catching the light a certain way that keeps her uneasy. Even with a mangled face, burnt to shit, she thinks he's still a handsome man. It might be the power. It might be the talent. Her drink arrives. She barely takes notice. 

"Then what does he owe?" 

"Not a goddamn thing." He chuckles, twisting the last of his well-worked cigar into the marble of the table. Those eyes flicker from the coils of smoke back to her attention. "Fade has been off the radar for two years. And I'm in immediate need of an informant. That Red Hood bastard either killed or bribed my last three."

"You thought I would find him. Not get the money." 

The anxiety is going away. She wonders why she fears him so much. Considering her daily routine with Two Face.

"Right." He sits up straight and downs the last of his drink. His focus maintains on the sd card. "You surprised me. Must run in the fuckin' family."

"I can't find him." This is her opportunity to walk away. Get back to the norm. Make amends with Face. 

"I know. That's why I lied to you, sweetheart." He's smiling. She can tell. "People manage some incredible shit when they don't have a choice."

He folds his gloved hands together on the table. He changes his posture. Sionis clears his throat from the scotch and his bodyguard turns his head a bit to side glance at her from the furthest corner. The man is a protector and he is massive. His blazer is well-worn but ironed pristinely. He has a wedding band; a married man, working deadly shifts for Sionis. Blue eyes. Massive hands. Probably has a kid, she thinks.

"How 'bout this? You provide your old man's location, and I give you three million, not including the bag and cash." He gestures two fingers at the items. "I'll pay you for the data on Hood right now." 

"This kept me from Two-Face." She sips at her drink. He can see the ice still slightly shaking. Her eyes are glued to that monstrosity of a handbag. She may be having a panic attack. Roman thinks it's endearing somehow. Better than the mess she was minutes before.

"For two weeks. What are you, a _dog_?" He laughs dryly. 

"I owe them." It doesn't piss her off like it should. 

"Which is why I figured Face wouldn't loan you the cash." But he _tried_ to. 

She hesitates. She parts her lips, a bit of blood notable at the edge from the nervousness of her teeth biting down. She's staring at the center bar, watching the lights reflect off the ice. She's torn. He can smell it. There's an uncertainty alongside her fear. He can manipulate it. He can twist that until she gives. This is what Roman does best. This is what kept him in business after his fall from grace. 

"To find the man whose finest skill was making people disappear is impossible," she says. 

"How'd you find this?" He slides the sd back at her, gloved knuckles rapping at the table. She's talking more. He can feel the vibration of the booth as she shakes her leg. She's biting her lip still. 

"That's different. That's information. It's how Two-Face keeps robbing the most lucrative banks in Gotham, specifically avoiding Merchant's Bank and any of your other laundering prospects."

He laughs. Another round of drinks come by. The waitress smiles at Sionis as he slides a large bill under the strap of her dress. Pearly teeth. Blonde as they come. She's gone in an instant. She'd smelt like a specific perfume. 

Tuesday thinks of Tiffany Ambrose. Those pictures of her body bleeding and bruised, hanging limp from the chandelier. Blonde as they come. Dead as a doornail. They say Roman went insane after her murder. Then he crawled out of his hole in prison faster than anyone had ever seen. He took it all back so quickly. So angrily. 

She notes briefly that he doesn't commit with women anymore. They hang off of him until the next round. He rotates them. Protection, she thinks. Paranoia, justified. 

"I'll lend my mercs." 

She blinks, responding with silence. She doesn't understand. 

"For Face. I'll lend my personal mercs whenever he needs 'em. If I'm not using 'em, that is. Your man and I have done good business in the past. Quality business. This doesn't hurt me none. All I need is Fade out of retirement." He swirls his scotch in one hand and gestures with the other. 

She inhales deeply. He likes the way her hair curves around her shoulder. But he can find something he likes about damn near any woman. 

"My first criminal negotiation and it's with Black Mask." The liquor burns as it goes down, and she barely laughs as it seems to finally take effect. Her blood is warmer. Her hands are trembling less. 

"Could be worse." He laughs against the rim of his glass. She wonders if it's difficult to drink through the mask. "Could be The Bat."

She smiles in realization. He didn't deny it was a negotiation. He made an offer. She can present a demand. 

"Immunity for Face." She stills in that moment and provides her full attention. She's looking directly at him, eye to eye, as her hands fold gently beside her drink, without the slightest tremble. Tuesday shifts, suddenly. She has a goal, he observes, and she intends to competently obtain it. She sheds her anxiety like a second skin, helped likely by the drink. She provides the most practiced of smiles. 

"You want my immunity package and the mercs?" 

"Just for Face." She takes another sip before pulling the tablet back. She turns it on and begins to fiddle with the sd. It blinks to life. 

"The full package? Parole and all? Your man only?" He grins behind the mask. A low chuckle that feels warm from the liquor and empty from all humor. This is ironic. 

"Of course." She's inserts the sd card into the tablet. 

He pauses for a moment, thinking, rotating the last sip of scotch and watching it cling along the glass. "You've really never negotiated in your _entire_ criminal career?"

"I just kill people." And pull numbers from the federal reserve system plus the stock exchange. "Negotiation is Harvey's strength." 

"Good to know." He downs the last of his scotch. "It's a deal, Ms. Cassidy."

* * *

Duke didn't like doing this. Duke didn't like watching Tuesday struggle with Face. Surprisingly, after 4 charges of rape from his ex-wife and ex-girlfriends, Duke didn't like women struggling with anything. Especially after seeing himself on video, under the influence and demanding, cornering and predatory, looking like an absolute tool. 

He didn't like how her meeting with Black Mask seemed one-sided. And he didn't like approaching her the way he had to, in the most predatory way possible. 

She's in a nice dress and new heels. Her hair's all done up. She's talking with Gotham's most powerful crime lord over drinks and a nasty ass handbag. Sionis is lax in the booth. Smoke coiling around him like poison. Like power. 

And Tuesday...she's patiently listening, _laughing_ slightly at something he says. 

"Tues. It's time to go." Her head snaps up at his unexpected approach and the remnants of her smile die instantly. A big motherucker wearing the trademark black skull steps in front of the table, hands crossed at his front and shoulders seeming like the width of a car. Duke disregards him and looks back to the little girl playing grown-up in her heels. "Face _ain't_ happy." 

The same big motherfucker sets a firm hand on his shoulder. 

"Ain't here for trouble, my man. Just coming to collect Face's girl." He eyes her from a distance, somewhat pleading, also demanding. They have to go. She's got a new cut on her arm, mostly hidden under a bandage. Face won't like it. 

"Can I _fucking_ help you?" Sionis speaks and it's like fire melts the damn bar. Seething. Impatient. Interrupted. The white of his suit is as blinding as the rest of the lounge and the black of his mask is as grungy as Gotham. They say the man has eyes like a demon's. They narrow at him heavier than the behemoth's hand that's gripping his collar bone. The rumors aren't far from the truth. 

"Just here on behalf of Two Face. He's pending a call." Duke raises his hands up in mock surrender, palms open and vulnerable. It's a slow and steady process as he pulls a burner phone from his jacket, eyeing the pistol idle in the far seat of the booth. Tuesday can see the crushing hand on the man tighten. He flips the phone open quick and dials 1. It rings once, green from the accepted call. He holds it up for show before Sionis extends a hand. Duke hands it off and Mask puts it up to his ear, expectant. 

The hand gets tighter. Tuesday is looking at him kinda terrified. Her eyes flick between him, her tablet and Black Mask. He wants whatever she's drinking. 

"Sionis." He announces it like a business call. He waves the redhead from his earlier grouping of women back over from another table, still holding the burner in the same hand as a newly lit cig. She walks through the drama and slides into the booth, her hands running up his arm in one fluid motion. 

_'Roman. It's Dent.' _Tuesday can barely hear them. She eyes Duke again, still selecting tabs of data on the tablet. The redhead lights herself a cigarette. The smoke is prevalent.

"Face. How's the fray?" 

_'Shit. As always. Business?' _She can briefly hear the coarseness of his voice. It sounds almost foreign. Two weeks feels like six months. Her stomach sinks further. Her hands are visibly trembling again.

"Shit. As always. I owe you and apology. Didn't mean to snatch your little girl here the way it happened." There's chuckling on both ends. The sound of tired men of ridiculous standards playing nice for a change of scenery. 

_'She ain't our property.'_

"Course not. Either way we worked out our differences. Everything should be resolved now." Roman takes a single drag off his smoke before twisting it around in his old glass of scotch. It seems almost laughable, watching him casually talk into a piece of crap flip phone, a redhead hanging off him and smoke swindling the air. 

_'That so?'_

"Must be pretty heated to not ask her yourself." Sionis doesn't even look at her. His attention is at the table. His gloved fingers still crushing down that cigarette and watching the ash mingle with what's left of the booze. 

Silence. Sionis smiles; she sees it again in his eyes. The smoke coils along the rim of his glass. She holds in a cough. 

_'Where should we wire the money?'_

"What money?" 

_'Your money.'_

"It's handled. I'm surprised at your generosity."

_'What'd she give you?' _Suspicion. Aggression. It's rare that Roman had opportunities to antagonize other's immediate lives. It's the small decisions and responses that amuse him. 

"Information. And a guarantee." 

_'We'd have rather seen her give the six.' _They nearly _growl_ it. So loud that she could hear it perfectly across the booth. She pulls up the final window on the tablet and turns it to his attention. His eyes flick to the screen and the redhead specifically looks away towards Duke. Freeing herself of liability, she supposes. 

The waitress brings him another drink and Sions seems lax, suddenly. 

"C'mon Dent. I'm typically a man of my word." He winks at the redhead and she smiles. 

"Your girl and I figured out a good deal. Info for provisions. I could've asked her for something a little more _physical_, if you know what I-" Roman stops as though interrupted.

She hears a dial tone. 

He looks at the screen, doubling back to listen again before folding the phone and dropping it on the table. They hung up on him. They actually ghosted him. Face and Harvey hung up on Black _Fucking_ Mask. 

Tuesday presses her lips together to hold in a smile. She gives a side glance to Duke who's still staring down Roman's guard. The redhead chuckles through her cigarette before running a hand along his leg. She seems to be tenured with Sionis. Tenured...but not settled. 

"Well, my dear, I think you might be grounded." His index taps at the burner before he slides it in her direction. 

"I suppose that's the cost." She smiles briefly. "Thank you, Mr. Sionis."

"_Roman_, sweetheart." He tells her his name and pulls the tablet close to his new drink. Then slides the handbag alongside the phone. "I'll hear from you soon." 

She smiles in return, sliding her wrist through the diamond-studded handle of a truly monstrous crime to fashion. Falcone's ex-wife had it custom made. Now that she's dead, no one would miss it. 

* * *

End Chapter Five.


	6. Vanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING - PHYSICAL VIOLENCE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I have re-written some parts of Chapter 1 because it was foolish newb trash. I have since rectified the error.  
TRIGGER WARNING - PHYSICAL VIOLENCE.

"What the hell are you thinking?" Miller is scolding her, eyes switching between the rear view mirror and the road. She has her heels off, feet flat against the back of the passenger's seat, forcing it further into Duke. She smells like liquor and she accidentally walked out with the glass from the lounge. It’s dark and the headlights on their Honda Civic are trash.

Tuesday doesn’t respond. She thinks it’s best not to. Miller is so deeply vested in Harvey’s gang. He’s the first one with his mask on. The first to shoot in the air. First idiot to yell at cops and Batman from behind bars about Harvey's rough justice. One of their youngest and most involved, she believes.

"You don't have _half a fucking clue_ on what's going on," he says. He’s right. She doesn’t. Her time away felt surreal. It all felt like a tragic vacation that went terribly wrong. Her night at the table with Black Mask felt like a whole day. Sipping drinks to quell her thirst and anxiety. Sionis has the type of charisma that makes a woman drink. She liked it, oddly. Momentarily dancing with death, that is.

"Face is the most erratic we’ve ever seen them. They shot that new kid from Star City in the foot for asking _a question_,” Duke says it with an undertone of concern. He’s cleaning his pistol while Miller drives. She’s 70% sure there’s someone gagged in the trunk.

"Was it a stupid question?" She smiles a bit, imagining the scene. Face completely blindsiding the kid with their .22. 

"It wasn't a _great_ question, but that’s not the point," Miller makes eye contact through the rear view again. The tattoo that runs around his left eye catches the streetlights as they drive past. His accent is so Gotham and his attitude is so Blüdhaven.

"It's just his foot,” she shrugs. It’s too bad she missed it.

"You dipped for no fucking _reason_. We got word of you making deals with Falcone, then we find you having drinks with Black Mask. Everyone's talking." Duke cocks his gun and eyes down the sight before setting the safety and tucking it into the door panel. He angles around the headrest as he talks to glance at her from the front. "They said you were having an affair. Double crossing the gang. Moving our money and guns.”

They think she's a traitor. For _'no fucking reason'_. That’s what he’d said. No reason other than a threat to her life and then later a gun to her head. They called her a liability. Flipped the coin on her. Or maybe it was just Face. Face as always, being dramatic and angry. Harvey was hurting. He’s always hurting. Face never hurt. Not even when he tossed the coin on her life.

“An affair?” She might laugh. Her heartbeat is quick. It might be the liquor. Her chest is still warm. It’s quicker now, thinking on what Face will say to her. Thinking how she left them in that hotel. They might slap her around. She feels like she deserves it in some odd sense. They'd deserve a slap in return...holding their gun at her like they did. As if she were disposable.

“Well...yeah.” Miller always sounds so dumb. Part of why Two Face keeps him around, she thinks. Anyone would think he’s too stupid to know much. Specifically The Bat.

Despite that, she’s not going to mention that she’s not sleeping with their boss. She assumes it would discredit them in some odd, outdated way. Men respect men who are fucking many women. As women respect women who are using powerful men. Hence her dresses and heels and coffee and cigarettes; hanging off his arm like she wanted. From either side her relationship with Face can feed either trope. He knows that.

The tropes don't matter, though. She missed them. She took every action to ensure she could be with them. If they want to kill her, she’ll find a way around it. Problem solving...like her father said. She can make it up to them. Maybe dinner and a million dollars will change their mind. Face is soft with her on most days, regardless. They like her cooking and she likes their stories. Harvey likes her patience and she likes his critical thinking. Face likes her persistence and she likes his resolve.

"Can we stop by the Wu's?" She shoves her feet further into Duke’s seat and slides deeper into the musky leather of the Civic. Her drinking glass rolls from her hand and clinks against the pile of spare license plates on the floor. There’s a sudden *thud* from behind her seat that she knows wasn’t a pothole. Now she’s 90% certain.

"Our cleaners off 8th?" Duke confirms. He hasn’t said much.

"Yeah."

"It’s a li’l outta the way. Why?" Miller makes a tight turn and her body leers to the right. The glass clatters against the plates and the noise grates on her ears. She curls around her heels, tucked in her lap. There’s a yelp from the trunk and now she’s 100%.

"I called them yesterday. Face hasn't picked up his dry cleaning in two weeks."

"Right. You normally delegate that." She’s starting to think Miller resents her. Maybe he’s been spoon fed the propaganda of her leaving. But Duke was there that night. She doesn’t know if he heard the right words or saw the wrong actions, but he’s known her too long and too personally. Too many laughs over good drinks and too many thanks for birthday cakes or meals at the Chinese place off Valley. He’s drunkenly sobbed over his ex-wife and she’s asked him to carry her heels during rough heists.

"Only when he forgets," she says. 

* * *

Wu’s is a friendly 24 hour establishment that not only manages weapon sales for Two Face, but also does impeccable high-end dry cleaning. The bells on the door ring as they enter, the smell of cleaning solvents and bleach. Tuesday's heels click across the laminate flooring almost in rhythm with the barely audible tune from the radio.

“Ms. Cassidy!” Myun beams, quick to stand from her crosswords and roll a rack closer with Tuesday’s order.

“Ms. Wu. How is business?” A middle-aged woman who immigrated from China in ‘97, all smiles and gifts, specifically leftover food wrapped in tinfoil. Her laugh lines are wondrous and her vitamin regimen is something Tuesday has seriously considered with how active she is.

“Same, same. Very busy lately, but nothing from your man!” She laughs, accent heavy, and hands a receipt off to Tuesday before pulling two metal cases from under her table. “When you called you asked for new automatic MAC-10, but I know you’ll like this better.”

"What are they?"

“Fully automatic, non-converted UZI. Full size. 9milimeter. Plus light bolt for increased rate of fire. Better for your height and weight. MAC-10s are ugly. You’re too pretty for such an ugly gun.” Myun beams, rotating the cases around for display. She opens the left one to show off the product. A flat matte finish, with matching magazines. Clean and discreet. Face would approve. The MAC-10s _ are _ relatively ugly.

“Perfect. Should I wire you more?”

“No, no it’s no difference this time.” She hands the cases off to Miller before beelining to her fridge. “Also I have leftover sesame seed balls you can take.”

“Thank you, Ms. Wu, as always.” Tuesday smiles as Duke takes the dry cleaning off the rack and the little pack of sesame balls she’s handing off.

“I hope to see you more, Ms. Cassidy! You make sure they get you home safe. Say hello to your man for me!” The woman waves them out, back into the gutter of a storefront in the most liquid and rank parts of Gotham. She's guessing the time is around 12:30am. There are sirens in the distance, seemingly at the other end of the block.

“She’s nice,” Miller says. He opens the driver side before lighting a cig. The trunk thumps again, jostling the car dramatically. No one says anything.

“Her son is our contact for site cleanup and body disposal.” Duke bites into a sesame ball, throwing the suits carelessly into the back seat. “Also deals with Black Mask and Rupert Thorne.”

“He’s nice too,” she says. “Just spoke to his contact last week.”

"Yeah, we know." 

* * *

“Why are we here?” She’s glancing as vertically upwards as she can manage from the car window, eyeing the high-end condominiums as they inch slowly into the parking garage beneath. Some of the nicest towers in the city, off the edge of Coventry in New Gotham. New builds, some specifically for the upper echelons.

“New space,” Miller shrugs it off. “The Boss bought it outright.”

“Outright? Which alias?” There's fog on the window from crossing over the river. Her finger traces the building windows on the glass before they move deeper into the parking structure.

“J. Brun probably.” The most likely alias, of course. The more successful of his two.

"That's risky...even for Face," she mumbles. Her heels are off again. She's smoothing out the garment bags from Wu's with one hand, playing with the hem of her dress with the other. It's quiet in the car. The engine is rough. They'd made a quick stop before the bridge at the edge of the bay and now there's no one in the trunk to jostle and fill the silence. Miller had been on the phone for a minute.

"Told you. Erratic. Called us just an hour ago, told us this is the new rendezvous." Duke kills the quiet and lights a cigarette. Miller makes a face and waves a dramatic hand as though to complain.

"Who knows?" She asks as he rolls the windows down for air.

"Top two. Of course." So Duke and Miller. Miller sounded so proud of himself.

"For now." She smiles a bit. The liquor wore off a while ago.

* * *

It's a little eccentric for her taste. Very modern. Very contemporary. Furnished supposedly. Very black and white so far. There's a front room from the elevator with a table and chairs. The doorway is thick rimmed in matte black with frosted glass. The flooring is a dark wood, cold on her bare feet. It's a two floor living space labeled condominium #22. Typical.

She's uncomfortable with the steely hand keeping her in place. Not an ideal welcome home, in her opinion. Not an ideal situation to begin with.

Duke hangs the dry cleaning bags on wall hooks before he takes a seat, pulling a deck of cards from his pant pocket and setting his pistol on the table edge. Miller shoves her forward a bit, his palm against her shoulder. She nearly loses her heels, holding them by the ankle straps in a curled finger. She's got a death grip on the gaudy purse from Sionis in the other hand, and Miller had one gun case where Duke set down the other.

"Face said we wait out here." He holds the door open for her. It's unlocked. "Don’t keep them waiting any longer."

"Think they'll kill me, Duke?" She glances at him over her shoulder. Her hair is a tangled mess that impedes her vision of the man. She can hear him fumbling between the cards and his cigs.

"_Nah_." He deals out two decks and mumbles past an unlit cigarette. "The boss is sweet on ya'."

She smiles at that and walks inside. Same type of flooring. Same modern motif. A little bit of a modern rustic vibe but overall exactly the type of rich-blood style that Harvey used to enjoy. There’s barely audible music coming from the farther wall, past the kitchen towards the hallway. There’s a new drip coffee machine, stainless steel and partly for espresso. The fridge is a little excessive in size. She likes the quartz counters. She remembers her father’s home having quartz counters. He never used a cutting board. Just right on the counter. Absolute chaos.

Tuesday makes her way down the hall, heels and purse in tow. She’s a little wobbly from the headache that’s beginning to pulse in her neck. A little unsteady on the balls of her feet, smelling the The Iceberg Lounge and cigars and perfume. She can hear the coin flipping over the music. The crisp sound it makes against their nail.

She rounds the corner of a doorway, somewhat judgemental of the lack of artwork on the walls, and sees them sitting at the edge of a bed, elbows on their knees, flipping the coin. Harvey’s hair is damp. They must have showered. They’re lax in the usual undershirt and sweats. Their suit is in a pile on the floor. Their all white, custom, Brioni suit...on the floor...next to their black wingtip Oxfords...which are _dirty_.

She inhales stiffly.

It’s a large room. Her barefoot walk of shame from the double doorway to the assumed closet door seems prolonged from the distance. She can feel them watch her with an unyielding scrutiny as she sets down the handbag on a vanity table and her heels on the floor. She folds their old suit, setting it on the nightstand. She shoves their shoes straight together and against the wall. The radio is playing faintly in the bathroom, old alternative 90’s. The humidity from the shower is still heavy in the air. She turns and sees they have their pistols cleaned and ready atop the comforter to their right.

They’re pissed. She knew that already but now she can literally just see it in their eyes. The coin flips again. They palm it and glance at the result before setting it delicately on the nightstand by their suit. They make a face at the handbag, just as everyone else has. They hate it.

The silence is painful. It's long and empty and still somehow heavy with anguish and tension. She bites her lip. It still tastes like iron from the split earlier. She swallows and sets her hands together at her front, standing a bit straighter. 

“Miller said you wanted to talk-”

“Are you _fucking kidding‽_” They yell, standing and closing distance so quickly she might suffer whiplash. They’ve got their hand around her throat and she’s an inch away from being completely off the ground. She grips at their wrist instinctually, Harvey’s old Breguet watch from his DA days reminding her to keep her hands off. She deals with it, her fingers curling at her sides and arms rigid at the strain. Tuesday is on her toes, struggling to match the height.

“Harvey-” Harvey might not be as mad. Harvey might know what to say. Harvey might-

“First you cry to us about being a liability. Then you steal our shit and take off. You run around town for two fucking weeks - undisguised - collecting information all while using my goddamn debit cards. Then you _STEAL_ from **_OUR BANK BOX_**. ALL WHILE **_FUCKING BLACK MASK_** AND **_WORKING FOR FALCONE_**.” The gruffness of Face’s voice is impending and contentious, elevated in tone. They're screaming. She can hear both of them, oddly. So loud that they echoe in the bathroom. The music is drowned out.

She’s oddly level headed, they think. She walked in like any other day, folding his suit and light on her feet. But she’s in a new dress that shows too much skin and she’s wearing jewelry they didn’t buy her. And she smells like booze and cigars and old leather. She’s flushed like this, their hand around her neck...her makeup a little smeared and her eyes a little glossy.

“Face, _I can’t breathe_-” Their grip is cutting her air. Her skin is on fire where he’s holding her up. She’s seeing dots in her vision. She stills, waiting for him to let go. Patient as always. The brat gives him a subtle smile of understanding...always that _ practiced _smile. They notice she has a new cut on her arm, bandaged up with a bit of red seeping through.

Red. Face can only see _red_. Harvey sees nothing.

They lift her up swiftly before throwing her into the vanity, forcing her downwards with their full weight. The sickening crack of both the wood and her bones sends an instantaneous sort of gut-wrenching dissatisfaction through them, as though their intention to harm her was...not a resolution. It wasn’t the usual brief slap or shoving her by a grip on her hair. Throwing their girl into furniture was...not what they wanted. It wasn’t...it didn’t feel..._ right _.

She gasps, softly. They can visibly see her blinking back tears, arms shaking as she pulls her upper body limply from the floor. Her legs are tightly together, trembling just as much. The bruising is instantaneous around her shoulder. It turns a sick purple, her bone clearly displaced and protruding under her skin. But Face isn’t going to admit a mistake. Not one they made out of anger. They’re not going to forget why they did it in the first place.

“You have two _fucking_ minutes to explain _every_ damn detail before we blow out your _goddamn_ _brain_.” Tuesday backs against the wall and slides to the floor. She hears him cock the .22 and jolts at the firm sensation against her temple. She can feel her ass on the cold wood floors. Her dress is up at her hips and she must look like an absolute mess. She can taste blood from where she bit her tongue at the impact. She can only feel a throbbing static pain in her shoulder. It’s hot to the touch. Her head throbs. She’s...tired for once.

“I was _not_ sleeping with Black Mask. I was _not_ working for Falcone.” She closes her eyes, resting her head back against the wall and further into the barrel. They’re crouched over her, one forearm on his knee, the other arm holding the weapon just above her ear.

Why does everyone just _assume_ she’s sleeping with _crime lords_? She’s not even _near_ the level of tenured to be sleeping with Black Mask, much less the level of blonde or red. 

“We need more than that, Sweetheart. Get a full sentence out, for once.” There’s a dry humor under their tone...they’re genuinely so, _so_ angry. Enough that her suffering humors them, whether it be ironically or sadistically.

“I needed to pay Black Mask, so I was meeting him...to set up a down payment. Buy more time. I got the money by helping Falcone.” Her breathing slows. It takes her a moment to put together her sentences. “Carmine’s ex-wife...was selling their son’s shipment plans to Red Hood. He suspected it, but he needed proof.”

“What proof?”

“I broke into her condo...downloaded her spreadsheets and deposits. She’d leave the schedules inside an uncommon novel at the local library...for one of Hood’s men to check out. Then she’d check out the same book a day later for confirmation of the wired funds. I filmed the transaction, pulled the check-out history from the librarian's computer, got Falcone’s blessing...and killed her. I had the Wu’s do cleanup, and gave Falcone polaroids of her body as proof.”

“How’d you kill her?”

“I used a Smith and Wesson Magnum revolver to incriminate her son. Threw it in the bay tied to a cinderblock stuffed with a phone book. I shot her 18 times for a crime of passion effect in six inch heels standing on the phone book to match his height. I entered and left via the vents...no video. ”

"So your point was to incriminate Falcone." Face leans back, uncocking the gun and setting it on the floor. They sit fully across from her, back against the bedframe, one leg stretched out. She doesn’t move, or open her eyes to the absence of the firearm. Her working hand is holding up her shoulder gingerly but with little effort. If her lips weren’t moving they’d think she were dead.

"Falcone paid me one up front. I had Wu’s guys pick up the other one mil from the payment point. I sold the spreadsheets and deposit info to Sionis to destabilize Hood’s income. Sionis knows how his money moves and from where." She blinks a couple times before closing her eyes again. They think she’s resting, maybe.

"So now Hood has Sionis and Falcone after him."

"And I never existed in the deal.” She smiles a bit. She pulled it off. She did okay work, she thinks. Her father would be proud, maybe. Face would be proud...maybe.

Face is silent across from her. They have about three feet between them. Tuesday’s dress is basically a tank top now with how much it’s ridden up, and they either fractured or dislocated her shoulder. They’re sitting on the floor, by a gun, in sweatpants and an undershirt, smelling like the aftershave she bought him. And she’s basically unconscious, maybe has a concussion, smelling like booze and smoke, in the worst excuse for clothing they’ve ever seen. It’s just a mess. And it almost reminds them of their father.

They can hear the radio again from the bathroom. It’s on a commercial for Lexcorp propaganda.

They focus on that for a minute...not the memory of their mother being thrown into the television.

"He killed Mario Falcone yesterday, so that doesn’t matter,” they say.

She parts her lips. Her breathing is slow and steady. Even and soft. Face watches her chest, damn near bare from that ridiculous neckline, as she inhales and exhales. Her neck is bruised where they grabbed it. Worse than normal. She couldn’t breath this time...she had to say she was dying for them to stop.

“Miller and Duke have two cases from Wu’s. UZIs and additional payment under the foam. Interest for what I took.” She inhales deeply and starts to sit up. Her hand is firm on her shoulder. The bruising is circular and centered. It may just be dislocation.

“Don’t matter.”

Harvey doesn’t want to look at her.

Face _only_ wants to look at her.

They thoughtlessly reach for her wrist when they realize she’s going to try and pop it back in. She doesn’t flinch. It makes Face angry, suddenly, that she _doesn’t_ flinch. They did her wrong and she won’t flinch. She _should_ be flinching. They _deserve_ to see her flinching. Face _deserves_ to see her terrified.

But instead she’s just looking at them...all sad and shit. Making eye contact. Wondering what they’re doing as they take the lightest possible hold they can on her hand and pull it away from the damage. Face forgets that she never takes the brunt of Batman’s assaults. Tuesday doesn’t go toe-to-toe with Batman and on the rare occasion she does, she rails 100+ rounds into his armoured ass and takes off. She’s always shooting cops, delegating men or running. _ Christ _she can run. And in those ridiculous shoes.

“Will you do it?” She's asking the men who dislocated her shoulder to fix her shoulder. She might not know how, they realize. She’s seen them ram their dislocated joints into a doorframe or two on several different occasions as a quick fix. Specifically after run-ins with The Bat. Self-healing, they say as a joke.

“Yeah.” They stand up, crouching back down to help her stand. They have one hand on her back and another under her good arm. “Sit on the bed.”

The brat doesn’t even pull down her dress as she takes her seat. They can see her thighs for the first time and wonders if they’re honest to _ God _the first to see them at all. Though, to be fair, it may not be her main priority. The shoulder looks...bad. And she looks...worse. But half of their face is completely fucked...so who are they to say anything?

“Relax your arms.” They’ve got one knee on the floor, at her level, and take a firm grip on her injured arm. He feels at her shoulder, confirming it's dislocated and nothing's actually broken. “You’re gonna reach it out to the side, then over your head. We’re gonna guide it.”

She nods. They lift it. She's blinking little pricks of tears back. But they’ve seen her take shrapnel to the jaw and neck and laugh on the way home, two hundred grand richer in the back seat of flaming van. They remember when she broke her arm after falling through the glass ceiling at the Second National Bank during a scuffle with Robin. They heard and saw it crack against the marble floor of the highest balcony. She carried two duffels of money out about two minutes after, high on adrenaline, and Face had to scream lungs out as to why his full grown, paid, _criminal_ men didn’t carry them for her. They know she's not crying from the pain.

She’s crying because they threw her into the vanity.

“Rotate you hand, palm to you neck.” They help her move it. They’re so close they can smell her perfume under everything from the Lounge. “Now you’re gonna reach for your opposite shoulder.”

“It’s tight.” She grimaces and he sees how smeared her lipstick is in that expression.

“Supposed to be.” He makes a quick motion to move her hand over and the **_*pop*_ **that resonates into their grip is almost alarming. She hisses and jolts forward. So close. Inches. Not even. In that dress. Black boyshort briefs. Vulnerable. Unafraid. Admittedly _ their _girl.

Face wants her. More than when she was gone. More than he ever wanted Gilda. He wants to apologize. He wants to kiss her. He wants to run their hands through her hair. Keep saying sorry until she believes them.

Harvey doesn’t know what he wants.

“How did you know about me meeting Falcone?” She’s rubbing her shoulder, rotating it and winching. It’s still purple and red. Her hair’s a mess. There's a new line of blood coming from her hairline down her temple. Her eye is getting darker by the minute from the impact with the wood. She looks like a heist gone wrong. And it's their fault.

“I have two moles with Falcone. One contacted Duke. Said they found you, just...blonde.” She doesn’t say anything about their hands still on her arms. How they're lingering there after having just tossed her around. Tuesday only laughs for a moment. An actual grin, outside of a bank robbery or murder attempt. _Humored_ that such a ridiculous detail stuck out to them. How she wore a blonde wig meeting Falcone. Blonde like _Gilda_. It looked awful. She feels awful. She didn't know how bad it looked. How bad all of it looked. The stealing, the running, the jobs...drinks with Sionis. She didn't even know he had spies on Falcone.

“I’m not a very good blonde,” she laughs it, still holding her shoulder. She’s really crying now. Her shoulders trembling. Her mascara's running. She hangs her head, her bleeding hairline pressed firmly against their chest. She keeps laughing. Something detrimental happening in her thoughts.

Face doesn’t know what to do. Neither does Harvey.

Gilda was never _this_ broken down.

Then again...Harvey never threw Gilda into a vanity.

They’re torn without a choice from flipping the coin. So they make _no_ choice, and settle for holding her there. Harvey thinks maybe she settled for _them_.

* * *

End Chapter Six.


	7. Girl Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE BE AWARE THIS STORY TAKES PLACE POST BATMAN: ARKHAM KNIGHT  
If you did not play the video game, and you do NOT want spoilers, please do not continue The following list is a list of events and major plot-points that dramatically impact the below chapter. 
> 
> Spoilers:  
\- Poison Ivy dies saving Gotham alongside Batman.  
\- Batman is unmasked by Scarecrow and is exposed as Bruce Wayne.  
\- Batman starts Project Knightfall, fakes his death, and becomes a full-time, more severe Batman.  
\- James Gordon becomes Mayor.

The sun is scalding to her eyes. Tuesday winces and makes a noise. The sheets are soft. The pillows are soft. Her usual bed is never this soft.  


Pain cripples her briefly. She grits her teeth and takes a fistful of the comforter, curling into herself to hide from sunrise. It's been several hours. The radio turns off, finally. They wouldn't let her fully sleep. Face would shake her hip if she didn't move for longer than a few minutes. She'd listen to them turn pages all night, reading a book, seated in a chair across the room by the closet. They stayed up to keep her awake. Just in case she had a concussion.  


She hears him sliding one or two hangers around in the closet. Face doesn't say anything before they pull on a new waistcoat and jacket. There's a couple minutes of them fumbling around for a belt and shoes. She can visually picture them even with her face pressed into the pillow. The double doors are quiet as they close. They leave.  


She hears talking briefly. Other voices. Kitchen items. Like bowls and silverware clinking. The fridge beeps because someone left it open, she thinks. It sounds just like the fridge in her old apartment. Face left already, from what she can hear. She wonders if they take the elevator to the maintenance parking garage. The most empty level. Literally unused for perhaps that exact reason. They can't just walk through the lobby...can they?  


Her body aches. Her throat is dry, like sandpaper. She's spoken more in the last few days than she has in the last three years. Pain springs from her shoulder up her collarbone and into her neck. Soreness and pulsing. Her muscles feel raw and languid. Her feet touching the wood floors send sharp thrills of the cold into her legs. She smells coffee.  


There's a knock on the door. She can hear a knuckle rap at the frosted glass. She can barely see a silhouette behind it.  


"Boss says you need to stay awake. Come eat."

Duke. He walks away.  


The desire to stretch her arms is quelled by the ache in her shoulder. She sits up and feels lethargic, hands trembling slightly and eyes sticky with sleep. The sun pours in through thin veils of creme curtains. The windows are so tall and most of the room seems like glass, contrary to her usual concrete surroundings. She likes the bed. It's a huge bed. Sleek wood and grey sheets. She hobbles into the closet, her leg aching and showing purple in select areas from the vanity. Face has little to nothing in the closet. Figures. Extra shirts. One more suit. Another pair of Oxfords. Socks still in the duffel bag they brought it all in.

Everything else must still be at the warehouse in the back rooms.  


Tuesday steals a shirt. Because taking a blow into a vanity should allow her to at least steal their undershirt. She makes the slow journey across the ridiculously large room to the bathroom, intent on a shower. The vanity is pretty much done. The glass is in tact, which is good. That would have been an absolute nightmare. The wood is splintered and the frame is in shambles. She puts it out of her mind upon entering the bathroom. Another duffel bag by the sinks. The necessities. Bathroom things. They'd brought her shampoo. Rosemary scent. She almost smiles. 

* * *

The water's warm. She likes this shower head. Reminds her of the shower in a hotel they stayed in during a trip to Metropolis. The water comes down from the ceiling. The tiles are like a natural stone. She can't help running her fingers over them frequently, scratching a nail at the little edges and grooves. The texture entertains her and the heat makes the pain a little less. She sits on the floor of the shower for maybe fifteen minutes, soaking in the steam and soap. She peels off the old bandage on her arm, tossing it to the side as a sloppy mess. The water runs along the scab and burns. A part of her wants to lay down and die in the shower. The other part is starving and urging her to plan a route into the kitchen.  


The water's off and she presses a fluffy towel into her face, sopping up the moisture and humidity before wrapping it around her person. She's careful not to move their things around as she looks for hygienic necessities. Careful not to disrupt whatever they had in motion for their routine. Harvey clearly shaved. He shaves almost every day. There's hardly evidence of it outside of the razor.  


She washes her underwear in the sink, if only to keep herself sane. Tuesday sees her reflection as she's scrubbing and can't look beyond the purple of her eye. Her forehead is blotched a faded green and yellow. The gouge on her temple is inflamed and red. She rings out the clean garment, which is still damp...but whatever. Undershirt on. Underwear clean. Hair washed and brushed out with Harvey's comb. She doesn't have pants...but she's not wearing the dress again. She has the single pair of heels. She hates everything about herself in the moments that it takes her to realize she has nothing else. Just her shoes and that atrocious handbag.  


Duke stills when she walks out of the bedroom. His eyes find her quickly, confirming she's in her underwear and a shirt, before he fully assesses her damage. He and Miller are at the kitchen island, sitting on stools, shoveling down cereal. They have the milk left out like savages and it's clearly some off brand from the closest gas station. She doesn't even recognize the cereal. It's five different colors and there's a poorly designed tiger on the box, winking.  


"Jesus Christ." Duke stands from the counter and walks over, leaning down to look at her eye. He lifts her right eyebrow with his thumb to stare at the broken blood vessel. She briefly recalls that he went to nursing school before his life went to shit.  


"Where's Face?" She asks Miller mostly. Duke is twisting her arm around to check the bruises.  


"You wanna see 'em after they did that?" Miller kind of laughs past a mouthful of cereal. He pours more into Duke's bowl and tops it with milk before sliding it in her direction. He points his spoon at it, telling her to eat. "You look like you had a run-in with Batman."

"It's not that bad," she says, making a slow approach to the seating with Duke following close.  


"Those are angles. You can see the lines." Duke points out the line of bruising and follows it down her cheek with a careful finger. "What'd they hit you with?"

"Nothing." She avoids eye contact.  


"Okay..." Miller squints, pointing at her with his spoon. "What'd he hit with you?"  


Miller finds this deserved. She can tell. She doesn't blame him. His first fuck up resulted in a fractured jaw. Her first fuck up was a slap. Duke's first fuck up ended with a broken finger. Face always had a temper. Their mood was always infrequent and the swings were often completely unpredictable. Some things just...make the situation worse.  


"A vanity."

"Jesus." Duke runs a hand over his skull, recently shaved, sniffing a bit before handing her his spoon and leaning on the counter.  


"I dislocated my shoulder." She sits in a stool by Miller and starts spooning at the cereal. It's just...sugar. Dyed sugar in the shape of tiny rice pieces. Speckled with more sugar.  


"God." Duke pulls her sleeve down her arm to expose the skin of her shoulder. Not as bad as it could have been.

"I mean...he did shoot the Star City kid in the foot…" Miller drinks the leftover milk from the bowl between words.  


"Star City kid's an idiot. And not his girl." She's flattered that Duke doesn't think she's an idiot.  


"I'm not very good at being his girl right now." She mumbles into her spoon. Her hand grips at the bowl and there's a slow ache in her jaw that shoots pain to her head. Her body hurts. Her eyes hurt. Her ego hurts.  


"Your leg. Damn." Miller glances under the counter and opens his mouth to gape and the purple of her knee and thigh. "Was he drunk?"

"When've you ever seen the boss drunk?" Duke snatches the cereal box from him. Tiger Crispies. There's a crossword puzzle on the back that one of the two has already tried completing.  


"Haven't."

"There's your answer." Duke tosses the crispies box by the coffee pot before pouring a cup. He sets it by her cereal. It's a little styrofoam cup with the edge chewed. "No sugar."  


She's drinking black coffee out of a used styrofoam cup and eating off-brand cereal out of someone else's bowl. She doesn't have pants on and she looks like a Jackson Pollock painting, sitting in one of the most elaborate condominiums in uptown Gotham. Tuesday admits that she's seen better days.

Part of her admits that this is...not deserved, but... _ earned _ . She didn't communicate well. She panicked, withholding information from the men she found most important and trustworthy. When Face had explained his perspective, she understood. And when she had explained her actions, so did they. She'd just kept the details to herself until it was too late. Then their unpredictable brutality filled the gaps of her silence, and now she's dealing with the physical pains and consequences. Tuesday withheld her words as she always does, and as a result she was beaten until she yielded.

"No wonder Face left like they did." She was nearly dozing off in her seat when Miller said something, just on the verge of sleep. She blinks, straightening her posture and getting a better grip on her spoon.  


"Like how?" She asks and takes a quick sip of coffee. Bitter. Sour. It tastes like humid air smells.  


"So Boss texts us last night to crash on the couches and stick around 'til morning. Lock up, keep watch, the usual. Face walks in an hour ago. Doesn't say shit. Doesn't even look at us." Miller puts his bowl in the sink but forgets the spoon on the counter. "Tosses maybe a grand on the counter in hundreds and tells us to get groceries after you were up and about."

Her eyes find the money, untouched and in a clip on the counter. It’s a good sized amount, and, like Miller said, appeared to be in hundreds.  


"Groceries?" She presses her lips together.  


"I mean...." Miller scowls. Duke hasn't reacted; he only nods is silent confirmation. "How much does Face think groceries _cost_?"  


There’s a moment of silence as his real questions seeps in. Her smile hurts. She laughs briefly, crunching on half soggy cereal. The way he asks it is so genuine that she can't help but giggle to herself.  


"It's been four years since he bought groceries," she defends. Because it has. And even then, Gilda was more or less the one who did it before. If not Tuesday shopped  _ for _ Gilda.  


"Tues. I’m not complaining, the boss pays us well. But we spent like five dollars on this milk and cereal."  


She laughs again. There's only pain, but she feels better somehow. Better than she did sitting at Sionis’ table, sipping drinks. Better than she did in the back of their car, watching Gotham speed by. Better than she has in the last couple weeks.  


"They could easily spend a thousand in scotch," she counters.   


"Is that a grocery?" Miller asks.

"Absolutely," Duke confirms. 

* * *

Duke and Miller leave.  


She's alone in such a big empty space.  


Her eyes get watery and her body hurts. She sleeps until they come back. Duke has her full grocery list in five brown bags alongside some unlabeled medication in a Ziploc. The two men bicker about where exactly eggs go in a fridge, put everything away, and then play cards for half an hour before leaving yet again in response to a call from Two-Face. She's alone for good now, curled up on the couch. The wall where the television hangs is a grey brick. It makes her think of Arkham. She’s never been incarcerated there. Face always made sure she and a handful of his best always got away if a job went sideways or if The Bat showed. But she’s seen the inside of the cells on the rare occasions they have to break Face out. She remembers the old halls and dilapidated lights as she and their group make quick work of infiltration. The fire and stone bits that fly, the sound the bullets make into the brick. She can't imagine they'd want such a reminder.  


She has in-and-out dreams of those memories before she wakes up to pain in her leg. The bruises look sickly now, yellow on all edges. Tuesday presses her thumb into each one, hesitant to check for complications. But it all feels right. Just sore. Achy. The sketchy medication Duke gave her is working well. Dulling her receptors.  


She needs to walk. She needs to start searching for Fade.  


She had a deal with Black Mask. Regardless of last night, she has an obligation. Her eyes wander the bedroom as she shuffles in, hands full with what she'd brought hours prior. She adjusts the sheets and pillows on the bed before picking up the book they’d been reading off the chair to the side. It’s a fairly new copy of The Red Badge of Courage, which was likely her least favorite book in all of history. She digresses, placing it on the closest nightstand. She eyes Harvey's wedding band, stagnant and forgotten on the edge, having been almost knocked off by the book. It's the first time she's ever seen Harvey leave it behind.

Maybe, she thinks, for just today...finding Fade can wait.  


Tuesday moves the ring further into the center of the nightstand just in case, then takes the dry cleaning Duke left in the front room and hangs it in the closet, separate from the garment bags. She empties the weapon cases of the cash, but not the guns, and stacks the bills on the coffee table. She hauls the cases to the back of the closet and stashes them behind the clothing, then empties Face's duffel bags before storing them on the highest shelf she can reach without strain. She puts the shoes away before leaving into the kitchen.  


Tuesday notes that there are two bedrooms spanning across a third of the level, inclusive of a third room which resembles a study. The rest is inclusive of the dining room and kitchen. The living room is an open floor plan to everything else. And she really does love the daylight that comes in through the massive windows. It's bright and warm. Open and elevated. Everything Face hates, if she's honest.  


The way the groceries are stored in the fridge is a goddamn  _ crime _ . Then again it was criminals who put them away. Regardless, cheese does not go on the top shelf and sour cream does not fit well in a drawer. The milk is on a shelf on its side instead of in the door. The vegetables are everywhere. But the drawers are actually  _ labeled  _ with tiny icons for their specific purposes. Clearly Face's men don't care.  


There are utensils and cutlery. Clearly things that came with the apartment, considering their odd brand names or lack thereof. She heats a pan with oil, starting on chicken. In another she fries onions and peppers. In a third she heats water for tea and when it's all complete she runs a dishwasher for the first time in forever and nearly cries as a result. She doesn't have to wash things.  _ It _ washes them  _ for her.  
_

She eats and leaves a covered plate for when they get back.  _ If _ they get back. And she falls back asleep on the couch, mug of tea forgotten entirely on the coffee table. 

* * *

_ ‘Tuesday,’ Gilda hands her a manilla folder. Or is it an envelope? Maybe photocopies. It's a blur. ‘Can you file these away in my office. I have dinner with Harv at seven and I'm already late.’  
_

_ ‘Of course.’ She can't exactly remember. It’s thin and sturdy. There’s no color. She remembers it's October. Elections are pressing them. Any day now. Dent for D.A.  
_

_ Put a Dent in crime.  
_

_ ‘He’s taking me to a bistro downtown. We’re celebrating with Gordon. He and Bruce are officially endorsing Harvey’s candidacy now that we're in the final stretch.’ Gilda slips out of her flats and into her spare office heels. They’re black. Or brown? Were they...white? No.  
_

_ ‘We already had Mr. Wayne's word. The Commissioner was anticipated.’ Tuesday sees they’re already checked off on their whiteboard. Two more major names checked. One to go...she can’t recall who. It's all blurry. The whole plot map she's put together is illegible. Or was it a pie chart?  
_

_ ‘Of course, but I’m not going to deny them the opportunity of treating me to scallops and champagne.’ They laugh together. A familiar sound...the both of them laughing. Common over drinks and low music from a coffee shoppe. Maybe over tea and sweets in a cute little cafe on the northside. Those days where they would sit and talk for hours about everything.  
_

_ Gilda’s laugh is like white wine; appealing and rich, yet underlyingly dry. Her eyes sparkle despite it, and her embrace is ambitious and warm and tactful. Her eyes are so blue. Tuesday remembers that. Crystalline. Like calm water.  
_

_ ‘Thank you, Tuesday.’ She holds the younger out at arms length, her smile brightly coated in a shade of lipstick. It was pink. Or red. Maybe burgundy.  
_

_ 'For?' _

_ ‘You’ve helped me so much with the charity event planning and filing away those ridiculous contributions. And now we're in the lead coming up on the finish line. We can’t thank you enough.’ We. Plural.  _ ** _We_ ** _ .  
_

_ ‘I'm your intern, it's kind of my job.’ The laugh is slight this time. Dry humor. She’s comfortable. They’re both comfortable. Gilda tucks a loose piece of hair behind Tuesday's ear, straightening her braid in the process. Doting on her. Motherly. Gilda said once she wanted kids. Two kids. Twins would be amazing. Three is too many. Maybe just one. She wanted a son for sure.   
_

_ ‘Yes, but no one said you had to be good at it. You're killing the competition with online promotionals. Your demographics are spot-on.’   
_

_ ‘Anything for you and Harvey.’ They're both smiling. Gilda's teeth are so white. Sterling. Her dress is pretty. Was it a dress? She walks away to start pulling on her outfit layers. The weather’s cold. It’s snowing. White out the window, despite the evening.  
_

_ ‘We should go to brunch this Saturday. You can bring your father. Warren loves his mimosas, if I remember right.’ She’s packing up her purse now, heels clicking as she glances around in search of her scarf. ‘Besides, you and Harvey barely know each other and you're responsible for over half of his social media coverage. You've been helping us solidify endorsements for months now. It’d be good for us all to sit and relax for a change. You can finally get to know the man you've been promoting.' _

_ ‘That sounds nice.' Tuesday pulls more demographics spreadsheets from a binder on the desk. She doesn’t...remember why. Young ethnic females. Adult ethnic males. Educated. Middle class.  
_

_ 'I can introduce you to Mr. Wayne as well. Your age? Knowing a man like that? Great for a resume.' _

_ 'Maybe.' Gilda wraps up in the scarf. Tuesday holds out her jacket before she takes it with a mumbled thanks. A car pulls up in the road outside the office, already honking. The headlights are bright through the slow downpour of ice. The traffic behind it is noisy now that she listens.  
_

_ 'Okay. Driver's here. I'll see you tomorrow. Bright and early!' Gilda is gone. She’s standing there, holding the spreadsheets in a death grip.  
_

Tuesday jolts awake to talking. Loud yelling. A nasally tone. Audacious and wild. Carefree. The voice is female. It echoes from the front room at the elevator. She can hear it through the glass double doors. There's a brief panic, her hands gripping at the leather of the couch. How fast would she make it to the closet in her condition? Not fast enough.  


“This is a  _ nice _ place, Harv! Better that that old dump of a courthouse!”

"Don't touch  _ anything _ , Quinn." Harvey.

"Okay! Okay! I won't touch nothin' ya grump." Tuesday hears her blow a raspberry, Harley’s silhouette through the doors shows hands on hips before she reaches out and sets a single fingertip on one of the front room chairs.  


"You take  _ anything  _ and we'll  _ gut  _ you!" Face.  


"I'm here to spend time with my gal pal not sift through your two-toned underwear drawer." The doors creak open amidst the yelling, Harley’s still turned to the elevator with her back facing Tuesday.

"You tell  _ anyone  _ we bought this place-"

"And you'll gut me - I get it. This is the worst party invite ever." Her accent is heavy, as always. Seeping into every word, sarcastic and playful.  


" _ Quinn _ ." Rage. Seething, bottled rage. Face never had any patience for Harley. Barely any for Penguin or Scarecrow. None for Selina.  


"I'll talk to her! Sheesh! Get going! She probably don't wanna look at yer ugly mug anyhow."  


"If you're not gone in  _ two  _ hours we’re gonna-"

" _ Fucking gut me _ yeah  _ I know _ !"  


The door slams. Harley strides in, combat boots squeaking on the floor. Tuesday sits up, legs still bare and t-shirt hanging off one shoulder. Harley briefly poses as an entrance, looking like a queen. Hair done, dyed at the edges, in a long sleeve crop top and leggings. Her arms are decorated with an assortment of totes and bagged groceries. Her hands are covered with fingerless gloves and her lipstick is as black as her left eyeshadow.  


“Listen Tuesy your man... _ men _ ...are soemthin’ else. I don't know how you-” Harley gasps as she eyes the kitchen. Her hands dropping everything and covering her gaping mouth. She's looking at the plate of chicken, covered in plastic wrap, cooled and ready for the fridge. "Oh my gosh you made ‘em a plate of food - that is so cute! Oh. I didn't even think about that. I never thought to picture Harv eatin'. Reminds me of my days with Puddin, though."  


The blonde sighs and sets a hand over her heart, an expression of fondness overwhelming her character. Tuesday swallows a bit to loosen her tongue as the other woman gingerly puts the plate of food in the fridge on her behalf. Harley was...unexpected. Especially so casually. In Two-Face's condo. Happy and unrestrained.  


"How are ya Tuesy? Heard you took a tumble." Quinn points at her with a hand on her hip, quick to cross the living space and make herself comfortable on the couch in close proximity. Her eyes are as dazzling as always. "Oh wow. Heh they didn't mention the black eye. Sure don't miss those days!"  


Laughter. Harley's seen a lot worse than Tuesday has. Harley has scars all over her back and gouges in her thighs. Harley covers up the knicks and scrapes on her face with a good foundation. But she's still smiling. Even without Joker.  


"I won't either," she mumbles.  


"Listen. It's all worth it for the man you love, hon. I remember when Mr. J broke three of my ribs, I was this close to walkin' away." She shows a millimeter of distance between her index and thumb. Her tongue pokes out between her lips and her right eye squints dramatically. "But I stayed for my Puddin' until the bitter end."

A fluttery sigh. Harleen was always an overly romantic loon. Since the day they met years ago.  


"You seem happier now." Tuesday mentions it only because it's true. Face doesn't break her ribs. Harvey doesn't fracture her skull. They don't throw her out of a five story window and they certainly don't pistol-whip her for laughs.  


"My Puddin' was...a lot. I don't regret anything I've done, but I'm not complain' now. You're lucky Harv ain't half the madman Mr. J was." Quinn snorts real hard. “Get it? Half?”  


Tuesday almost smiles. Almost. And Harley takes notice. Her own grin gets wider and she crosses her legs on the couch, oddly balanced. Her bracelets clank together as she adjusts herself. She leans in a bit as though serious, preparing herself for something.  


“But the big bad doofus didn’t send me here ta talk 'em up.” She makes a scrunch face, thumb gesturing to the bags she'd left in the middle of the floor. “I think I’m supposed to give you some clothes and girl talk. Maybe heal up your psyche a bit.”

"My psyche?"

"Harv had me busted out of Arkham. One minute I was in shock therapy and the next I was being black-bagged through gunfire by a bunch of masked weirdos. They shove me in a car, take off the bag, hand me a bat, and the alarms are off. Everyone’s shootin’ everyone, then we're across the bridge, home free after a couple grenades out the windows for the coppers chansin’ us." Harley makes gun gestures with her hands, telling the tale physically as she walks Tuesday through every step of the plan.  


"Was Face even there?"

"Course not. Your touchy-feely friends took me to him after we lost the cops.” She stretches behind the arm of the couch, fingers desperate to grip the handles on one of the tote bags she’d left on the floor. "Told him I wasn't gonna budge unless he took me back to my gang to check on my babies, though. Had ta get myself out of that awful jumpsuit before I could listen to anyone anyway."  


She adjusts her crop top and pulls at her sleeves to straighten it out. "Said he needed me to talk to you because you were hurtin'. He wouldn't give me more detail and mostly grunted when I asked questions. I mean, he was drivin' but they could've at least tried for small talk."

"They're not great with small talk."  


"Should'a seen how mad Harv got when I tried to turn on the radio." She waves a hand of dismissal, smile still prominent and careless.  


"He broke you out of Arkham to see me?" She licks her lips and feels the sting. She wants to rub and itch her damaged eye, suddenly, but the pain subsists and she can't bring herself to even try. She blinks back an onslaught of tears from the agitation as she asks.  


"From what I've gathered Harv lost his temper. Gave a lil' too much tough love, clearly. Honestly when Ivy and I first found out about you, we figured he'd be beatin' ya sunup 'till sundown." She picks a little bit of dog... _ hyena _ ...hair off her sleeve before continuing. "Since that ain't the case, then the first time he sends you flyin' is bound to be the most detrimental. Always is, speakin' from experience. So I'm pretty sure he wants us ta' talk it out, kind of reassure ya' that it won't happen again."  


This is a wildly odd plan for Face. Somewhat of a last resort. They didn't know what to do. They needed someone to speak to her that wasn't them or their men. Someone with a feminine or similar perspective, she supposed. Who better than the former psychologist and abused slave of Gotham's most notoriously abusive psychopath? She fit all the criteria. Even has a background in mental health. The idea makes sense, as she thinks more on the details. And yet it still somehow made no sense at all.  


“Because of the PHD...” Tuesday sniffs, blank.  


“Right! My P.H.D!” Harley grins so wide Tuesday can see all of her teeth. She's missing a couple towards the back. She wonders if it was Joker or Batman.  


“And if I don't want to talk about it?" Because Tuesday doesn't. And she never will. It was part of the job. Part of being with Face.  


"That's fine! I brought some rosé and popcorn instead! Girl talk!"  


Girl talk. Harley seems overly excited by this prospect. Rightfully so, she supposes. She was just released from solitary. She's been stuck in Arkham for around three months now. Selena hasn't been around, either. She's been off the map since Bruce Wayne 'died' to fully fulfill the role of The Batman. She supposes that when Batman, the cat's only savior from the gritty reality of Arkham, goes dark...she would too. And Ivy...Harley's a firm believer that Ivy will grow back. Start back up on her impossible mission of eco-terrorism and world peace among The Green. Tuesday doesn't think so. Everything in Gotham is so permanent. Everything in Gotham is so  _ draining _ .  


But Harley is right here, right now. Her smile is contagious and her laugh beckons others to follow suit. Her mind is twisted and warped and damaged. She's on the couch, legs crossed, hands in her lap like a child, looking at Tuesday like she's her last and only friend in this world that took everything from her.  


Tuesday briefly thinks about how Harley forced Two-Face to drive her around town, getting clothes and checking on her dogs, then buying wine and popcorn. She can envision him fuming in the driver's seat, scarred hand hosting a cigarette with the windows cracked and the other on the wheel, grip so stiff their knuckles are white.  


"Alright." Tuesday smiles. "Girl talk." 

* * *

End Chapter Seven. 


	8. Origin Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter requested by several readers. Something fun a light considering the angst of the last two.

How many drinks in? She had to recount a couple times, the pain in her face and shoulder mostly diluted by the wine. She swirls the liquid around, watching it stick to the rounded edges of the transparent plastic. They’d been talking for awhile now. Her fingertips are cold and the chill of the room reaches her shoulders, having crawled up her forearms and uppers. She shivers, stifling a yawn. 

"You gotta spill. It's a question we've all asked." Harley sets a serious tone, her brow pinching with focus. Her dimples are softened by the expression, blonde strands falling in her face, chin tucked in as she looks up from the floor to the younger woman. Tuesday hesitates, leaning back a bit further into the couch, freehand rubbing at the canvas-like texture of the cushions anxiously. 

"What?"

"How's Harv in bed?" Still serious. Her black-painted lips are pressed flat, awaiting an answer. 

"In...bed?" Tuesday hesitates again. Her mouth is dry and slack, struggling to find an answer. 

"The girls and I used to rate everyone in our inner circle. Selina and I figured Harv is in top three." She snorts a laugh. "We had some heated opinions on Mr. J." 

"Who-..." Tuesday has to comprehend the words. They went from talking about the edges of her bruises to sex with their social group without any sort of regular, sane transition. Harely had only just refilled their plastic cups with wine. Her curiosity begets her, the words slow to form a question as she takes another sip. “Who’s number one?” 

“Waylon.” 

"I-...” Tuesday decides that she no longer wants to understand the basis of their list, nor will she satiate her curiosity on the full list itself. And rather than question whether it is size or texture that places Croc so high, she answers. “I only know from a third party."

"Whaddaya mean?" Harleys brows knit together, lips puckering with confusion. She's chewing on her lip between sips of the rosé. She's seated herself on the floor, leaning against the couch and resting her cheek on her hand, stretched out for comfort. 

"I used to be good friends with Harvey's wife. She'd spill on girl's nights over drinks." Very much like what she's being asked to do now. Rather with the most notorious female criminal in Gotham, who has not once been known for having a filter. 

"Ex-wife." Harley tips her glass and grins. Tuesday can't help but smile. 

"Right."

"Then you've-...you an' him? Never?" There are four bottles of varying flavors of the same brand, and they're at the bottom of one. Tuesday's initial reaction to the sheer amount of wine was along the lines of horror, but after the last two questions it's beginning to seem like not enough. Never once has she turned so desperately to alcohol, the split of her lip burning as she drinks again. 

"Had sex?" She stifles a yawn, her jaw aching at the motion. The burn runs through her neck alongside the slight warmth of the wine, feeling like a slight fire that breathes from her mouth. "No." 

"How?" The word echoes audibly inside the cup as Quinn finished her drink in one hand and begins reaching for a refill with the other. 

"How what?"

"I mean…" She pulls the cork with her teeth and pours more for both of them, finishing the bottle. She's thinking on her question briefly before she continues, discarding the empty container carelessly on the floor. "You've been with Two-Face for like years!"

"Three."

"And he never-"

"No."

"Seriously?" The blonde tears open a bag of kettle corn, cork still pressed between her teeth, impeding her speech. A few pieces go flying, but the rip is a satisfying sound. Tuesday picks some off the couch and pops it in her mouth, tongue stinging at the salt. "Don't chew it. Let it dissolve. Perfect munchies food for a busted jaw." 

Tuesday figured this knowledge was from experience. 

"They asked once. A few weeks ago." Tuesday sips again, both hands coddling the glass. 

"A few weeks - are you kidding?" She spits the cork out on the floor, one hand holding the corkscrew in preparation for the next bottle and the other gripping a fistful of popcorn. 

"I promise you."

"Oh my god." Harley puts everything down, her hands covering her lips in a dramatic display of disbelief. "Are you a virgin?"

Tuesday drinks the last of her serving, a smile working itself painfully onto her face. She sniffs stiffly and tips her cup out for more wine, feet burrowing deeper into the couch and toes curling at fond, physical memories from college. That guy from her economics course, who couldn't figure out the algorithms to save his life, had a manipulative way with words that had gotten her only so far. The gorgeous foreign girl from her oral communications class, who spoke perfect German, simply had a great tongue. Harley refills. Tuesday needs it. 

"Never had actual sex." The truth stung like the fifth cup of wine. Always so close. Never quite crossing the finish line. Always willing to have fun. Never quite wanting to risk commitment. 

" _ Oh my heart _ . You're so young and so precious _ I can't. _ " Harley throws her head back, accompanied by a dramatic hand to her chest. Her laugh is contagious, nasally from her accent. "If only Red were here. She'd get a kick outta this."

"Please don't make this news." She feels warmer and lighter. She spits a quick laugh into the cup as she takes another drink, only halfway serious. 

"Alright alright. Doctor patient confidentiality." Harley sets the same hand over her heart and hiccups. Tuesday laughs, fully enough to snort. A pain strikes her abdomen where the bruises were worse, but she yields to nothing. The feeling of a drunken daze is so foreign because it's been so,  _ so  _ long and she will not let this sensation of floating go unnoticed. 

"Thank you." She drinks more.

"I mean. Have you at least... _ seen _ it?" Harley leans in. Her face is flushed, eyes wide and curious. Her lips are pursed and there's a bit of popcorn on the corner of her mouth. This close, Tuesday can see the lines beneath her eyes, the slight shift in her jaw from a prior break. 

"Seen...what?" Tuesday slows a bit. What number was she on? In cups of rosé? 

"I mean. Is he split...ALL the way down the middle." She uses her hands for reference. One hand palm open and on display, the other making a vertical line down her imaginary figure. Tuesday laughs so hard she spits her drink into the rim of her cup, immediate red flushing her face. The pain is gone. It's only warm like her cheeks and sweet like the wine. There's a softness from Harley's eyes and the fabric of the couch. She feels tears getting caught in her lashes and she wipes them away with her wrist, hands full with the cup and a few pieces of residual popcorn. Harley is laughing with her now, face so red it matches one side of her hair. 

Tuesday takes a moment to catch her breath and breathe. Her sides are sore, but the pain is less. She sits up straighter and clears her throat, smile still broad. 

"You mean their di-"

"Stop." Harley yells with an abrupt look of caution and puts a hand up to yield, her eyes wide and panicked. "You're too innocent. You’re not allowed to say  _ dick _ ." 

They laugh again. More tears in her eyes. She almost forgets about all the bruises. The black eye. The harrowing pain in her shoulder, now muffled and diluted by liquor. She slows back to a chuckle, her lips pressed together to keep down her most recent sip. There’s a nostalgia that hunts her, despite the jovial sounds and misplaced familiarity. Something that permeates in her chest, weighing down into a feeling akin to guilt or regret.

"Their scars end around here." Her hand flattens and presses firmly against her midsection, right under the ribs. "I've never seen them fully nude."

"This might actually kill me." Quinn wipes the wetness from her eyes, smearing a bit of her mascara in the process. Her dimples are profound and convey more depth in her smile. The lines at the edges of her eyes crease further into her laughter. 

"Why is this so surprising? No one ever claimed we were having sex." Just like no one claimed she was fucking Sionis. But that still went around like wildfire. 

"I mean." She blinks for a moment, thinking back. "I don't know. I just thought...you're such a cutie. We all thought you two were a formal thing."

That black lipstick really brings out Harley's unruly grin. Her teeth look pearly against it in contrast. She seems mischievous in her thoughts and chuckles before setting down the wine. She crosses her legs, nestling the half-full bottle against her ankles before straightening up to give her full attention to Tuesday. 

"Listen. When we had the Sirens going, me, Selina, and Pammy, we thought we'd be the only ones. Then Selina shows me the paper on Harv's heist. Headlines bolded and on the front, 'TWO-FACE ONE WOMAN - HELPING HAND FOR DENT'. We see you clobbering pig cars at the bank with two M4s, running up on B-Man and Robin in those heels, and we wanted a spot for you right off the bat." Harley tells stories like an old person. Mesmerized by the memories behind it and gesturing for effect. 

Tuesday remembers when Selina had extended an invitation. Told her to ditch her 'half-baked plan and half-sane man'; start up an independent career robbing the rich. Tuesday recalls declining, her hands fidgeting badly in her lap at the old ramen joint in downtown. They were overly casual then, seated at a booth in the window, watching the foot-traffic outside. There was less heat, then. Before Arkham City. 

"I wanted to join," she says. She recalls the smell of that place...sentimentality; she wonders if it's still open. There was a cat that moved its little arm at the window. They had almond cookies for frequent patrons at the front desk. She wants to go back.

"I know, I know. Your big weenie of a man was your priority. I get it." Another moment where Tuesday nearly spits her drink, hilarity gripping her by the throat. 

She wipes her lips against her shoulder sleeve, wincing at the pressure against the bruises. "I won't tell them you said that." 

"Nothin' I haven't told 'em before." Harley grins wider. "Anyway. Ivy was worried you'd be too trigger happy, so we watched a couple videos on the news cast. I mean, even with a mask on, I could tell you were havin' a blast with that automatic. And watchin' you take a nut-shot at Boy Wonder? I laughed so hard lemonade came outta my nose!"

"Second National Bank. I had fun." She points to nowhere in general, recalling the location, eyes distant as she remembers the floor plans. "Harvey's always so serious, but Face knows how to have a good time on heists."

"He lightens up a l’il?" 

"A little. That day Batman was monologuing. I shot him with the grenade launcher mid-sentence before catching our escape car. Face actually laughed." Her grin is soft. The bruises on her face run vertically and impede the action, but she keeps smiling nonetheless. It was a good memory. One of the few times where Harvey let loose, free of the self-hatred. 

"And you don't wanna admit you're sweet on him." The blonde scolds her playfully, giving a high-browed face of suspicion and a sly smirk.

"I never said I wasn't." Bold words for Tuesday. It sounds like the wine. Harley keeps her retort to herself, tip of her tongue pressed firm into the corner of her mouth. 

"So what's your story?  _ Everyone  _ knows my story. Not even one of us in Arkham knows yours."

"My story?"

"Your origin story, duh." She pours more for them both. "How'd a gal like you end up on the scarred arm of an idiot like Dent?" 

They laugh a bit. Tuesday had to think. This all spun so quickly out of control. It all seemed slick with blood for a while. One misstep and she'd slid right into a point of no return. One bad decision changed her entire lifestyle. But that was how the system treated it. There is no absolution or compassion for the people who make mistakes. Nor for the people who are ill. 

"I was friends with Harvey's wife. She was a brilliant political consultant, heading his campaign when he was running for DA. She and my father were close business associates, so he asked if she would let me intern for the resume experience. I think it was my second year in college; I spent all my free time at their campaign office.”

“You knew him back in the day?”

“For a while. I was nineteen when Harvey won. Gilda hired me as her secretary, full-time. She and I ended up...really good friends. Movie nights. Shopping. Cafe dates. She’d sneak me into clubs to have a good time." Tuesday is looking at the couch, eyes flickering back and forth, entirely transported, mostly disquieted. Harley can't help but realize that Tuesday didn't choose the lifestyle like she had. She didn't take a nose-dive into insanity as an escape, hands coiled so tightly around obsession that it left physical burns. Tuesday's talking about her past like a ghost, not like a regret. Mourning, still expectant of the consequences. 

"I graduated at twenty one, the same month Falcone caused the acid incident. Gilda was...a mess. She had a breakdown while he was in rehabilitation. After they removed the bandages, Harvey was abusive and angry and just...on the edge. I think all the pressure just collapsed on her. She decided to live with her sister out of town for a few months. Said she needed time. I told her I would try and fix things. My dad had his ways, with how many people he had under his thumb...I thought we would figure something out. Plastic surgery, doctors, therapists, whatever they needed."

"Mighty selfless of ya." 

"I was selfish. I was so desperate to help Gilda. I promised I would take care of Harvey while she tried to fix herself. When she was gone, I went everywhere he went. But...Harvey got worse and worse. And one day Face just...took over. When Gilda came back and saw what he had become...everything just fell apart."

"So you tried to fix him." Harley looked at her with a kind of remorse or pity. A young student with no experience trying to clean up a mess for someone she loved. A girl who bit off more than she could chew because she didn't think of the consequences. Harley knew that trope all too well. The sick man who has so many issues that needed help, being vulnerable and stuck. She could see the younger making the same mistake, where Tuesday saw this in Harvey and thought she could help and save him. That Tuesday could single-handedly fix Dent with her compassion and understanding. It all falls apart after a while. It becomes something else. 

"I didn't try to fix anything."

"Whaddya mean?" She squints, confused. Her assessment, wrong. 

Tuesday finishes her cup again. Those memories were buried so deely, recessed like trauma. They feel like another life. Another person made those choices. Someone smaller and weaker and less disciplined. Someone stupid and selfish and barely educated. 

"Harvey was a mess...but  _ Face _ . Face knew what he wanted. He had conviction. He knew what he needed to do to protect Harvey. He wanted to right Gotham from the inside out. Start by bankrupting the corrupt politicians, aim for their stocks and financials. Then feed the money back into the local economy and kill anyone and everyone in their way. The first time I heard their plan...something in me snapped. I  _ loved  _ it. I loved the concept. I loved his passion and desire for justice. I loved every word he was barking."

"So you chose helping Face over healing Harvey." Tuesday senses no judgement there. She feels no harassment. Not the way Gilda reacted. Not the way her father had. 

"There was no healing Harvey. Gilda didn't understand that. He just didn't care about Zsaz or Bane or Freeze anymore. Face made Harvey and I realise that the corruption started within. The abuse of Gotham's economy and political system was what allowed the crime to happen. The mayor and all of his payoffs. The dirty cops. The politicians and attorneys that collected money from the rampant crime and loss of innocence." She's counting the accused on her fingers, the bruises on her left hand prominent and dark. She’s leaning in, quietly fanatical in her verbal exposition. "It wasn't the killers or the freaks that were hurting Gotham the most. There would  _ always _ be killers and freaks. It was the people who allowed them to keep on that made everything worse. It was the scum that showered in money and profit from the criminal underground while innocent people died. Like Sionis. The mayor. The old commissioner. Half of city hall.”

“So when you rob banks, you’re aiming at ones owned by specific people.” 

“And specific accounts and safety deposit boxes.” 

“That’s some vigilante-level criminal work. If you weren't puttin' holes in cops and gunning down hostages, B-Man might approve.” Harley tips her cup as a gesture, pouring popcorn onto the couch cushions and using them as a plate. Her tongue clicks, teeth chewing down kernels.

“It was Harvey’s goal for almost all his life. Face just had a more urgent and violent way than what Harvey intended. I was watching him every second of every day for Gilda. When I first realized that Harvey had split, I was on Gilda’s side, threatening to institutionalize him. After I heard what they had to say...I supported Face. I urged his ideals. I made Harvey  _ worse _ . I-" 

"You realized there was someone you loved more than Gilda." Tuesday stops. Harley's picking up popcorn two by two and chewing between sips of wine. There's silence save for the crisps as she eats. The look on her face is telling and Tuesday realizes that she's been called out. 

She licks her lips, mouth dry. She moves past the comment. 

"It took me so long...so many years to get Face to just... _ trust _ me. And the last few weeks...everything's just fallen apart. They flipped their coin on my life. They did...this," her hands gesture to her body. The bruises still prominent from the evening before. "I don't know what I'm doing, Harley." 

Harley won't delve into how fucked up Tuesday actually is. How obsessive of a personality she actually has. Her love for Gilda, whether platonic or romantic, led her to obsess over Harvey. And her temporary obsession in Harvey led to her permanent obsession with Face. Finding the little fucked bits of a mind isn’t her job, anymore. Sitting on the floor, sharing popcorn off a couch, drinking wine, wasn’t her  _ job _ . 

"Sounds like you're hung up on half of the man when you should be in love with all of him." 

“All of him?” 

"First off,” she hold up a finger to count. “The bozo shouldn't be layin' hands on ya. His temper's a risk, obviously, because the guy has a severe case of dissociative identity disorder and a creepy obsession with duality. You wanna follow him around? Then be ready to take the physical consequences. Doesn't make 'em right for doin' it, but you know what the worst case scenario could be." 

A second finger goes up. 

"Second. If we're gonna look past the fact that he made ya' black and blue, then you need to tell both of them what you just told me. You're clearly in this for Two-Face. But Harv asked me to come here to make you happy. That means he at least cares. So somethin' final needs ta happen here otherwise it'll end up violent again." 

Pinky’s out, counting as the three. 

“Third. He’s attracted to ya. Which makes my second point easier. You’re in love? Great. Keep doin’ what you were doin’ before all the latest drama, and it’ll work out, because at least one of ‘em has the hots for ya. And at the end of the day, they both share a brain.” 

After two bottles of wine, how was she supposed to argue that logic?

"So what do you recommend?" 

"Figure out if it's one or both. Then you'll have your answer." 

* * *

End Chapter Eight  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	9. Wine Talks

Harley has her ankles crossed on the table in the main room, lounging in wait with eyes fixated on the elevator. Her boots are heavy and laced, edges thick with a hem. She licks her painted lips as the doors open, teeth chewing her bubblegum as obnoxiously as she could manage. Harvey walks through, her lips still stinging and salty from the popcorn-wine combo. 

They've got a grenade launcher in one hand, barrel resting on Harv's shoulder. That's at least the first thing she's keen to notice. The other's preoccupied with a duffel bag that can barely zip closed, weighing heavy at their side. They have no jacket. Their shirt, tailored and pressed, is rolled at the sleeves, exposing their forearms despite the cold weather this late in the evening. She wants to laugh at the suspenders, yet she admits that they somehow work well with the ensemble. Regardless, that unnerving, single eye focuses on her intently as they approach, blood-shot and agitated, still sharp and clear. She wonders how Tuesday sees it. If she thinks nothing of it with how long they've been together. If it distracts her. 

"Hiya Harv!" She grins, pulling her feet off the table and standing in his path, fingertips twitching with a slight impatience at their late arrival. "Welcome home!" 

"Get out." As straight to the point as always, voice rugged and laced with a warning. 

"Ya know, it's been five hours. I was s'posed to leave three hours ago." She taps an imaginary watch on her wrist, grin slanted and crushing down on her gum. 

"We know what the clock says, bitch." Such a charmer. How did Tuesday resist all these years? They drop the duffel bag, free hand gripped in a fist, the scarring on their knuckles stretched and tense. It lands roughly, a solid *clunk* shaking the floor at her feet and reverberating through the tile. 

"Mhm." She sets a finger on her lips, humming faux contemplation. "You were hoping she'd be asleep."

Silence. A few moments worth. A drull lack of responsiveness that sent waves of nostalgia. Her memories of their silent brooding at a shared table, handcuffed and restrained during group therapy sessions at Arkham. The orange jumpsuits. The terrible food. Harvey's unrelenting despise for literally everyone in the room. In Arkham they hardly yelled at her. They listened when Ivy was confined to her special box and no one else would. They hardly spoke. But they rarely rejected her. She related to them, oddly. They shared a similar fall from grace. Perhaps that’s where the sense of companionship derived from. Why he came to _ her _, rather than hoping the issue would resolve itself. 

_ Harleen isn't entirely incompetent. _

_ She's as much of a fucking mess as we are, Harvey. _

"It's none of your goddamn business," they say. 

"I'm her friend." Harley goes to set a finger on their shoulder before Face grips her wrist, listening to the crack of her joint under the pressure. She goes unfazed entirely, proceeding to jab into their shirt with accusation. "Maybe even her psychologist." 

"You're asking for a goddamn bullet to the head, Quinn." They increase the pressure, scarred knuckles taught. Harley smiles, eyes laced with that unnerving type of crazy that they'd insisted was irredeemable. There's a madness there, buried under the facade of those baby blues. A desperation that surfaced with the death of Joker. They let go, and she steps back swiftly, rolling her wrist around to loosen the tension. 

"She's drunk. We shared four bottles of shitty multi-flavored rosé, plus popcorn. I had her shower, we drank a little more, then I put her to bed."

"We told you to talk to her, not get her shitfaced."

“How was I s’posed to know she’s a lightweight?” 

“Look at her!” Their free hand openly and aggressively gestures to the room while the other maintains the balance on their weapon. 

Harley scowls, baring teeth for only a barely notable second. The flash of white is only apparent from the harsh contrast of her lipstick, wrinkles on the bridge of her nose slight. She realizes they're clueless. They want an immediate solution to their k-drama situation. She wonders if they even realize how deeply destroyed their ward is. If they even recognize the brutal agony of loyalty that Tuesday carries. Her fists tighten as brief as her teeth had shown, and Harley scoffs before crossing her arms, somewhat defensive on behalf of the younger. 

"You're an idiot. You're both idiots." Harley turns swiftly to address her personal items on the table, intending to leave. "She's in love with _ two _morons. What are the chances?" 

Harley’s fully turned away from them, hands collecting her things to go when she feels it. They feel violent. The hair on her neck stands; her body warns her of the danger. Like a chill that wafts, familiar and traumatic in a way that fondly submerges her into memories of dirty warehouses and gas bombs. It’s a static of their indignation that transmits through the air, similar to the way tension forms walls like a tangible, concentrated substance. Her breath hitches, a realization coiling in the pit of her gut, cautionary. She waits, tense and ready, but the moment passes, and their glower of impossible ire softens, the anger relenting to comprehension. More humane, now. More Harvey, less Two-Face. She turns back to look at them, her eyes hunting for something in their posture and expression. They're standing there, one hand still propping up the grenade launcher while the other rests in their pocket, evidently toying with the coin. They're not even looking at her. The floor holds their scrutiny, dissimilar eyes following the thin lines along the wood. She swallows, her lips parting and throat suddenly dry like summer in the inner-city. She licks her lips, tasting the chalkiness of her makeup. 

_ She wants us. She’s our girl. _

_ Shut up. I can’t _ ** _think_ ** _ . _

"You didn't know," she assesses, knowingly interrupting the inner dialogue.

"No," they respond. They sound absolutely disoriented...almost hesitant. Harley won’t mock the situation, as painfully laughable as three whole goddamn years of arrogance-driven ignorance seemed. She’s felt the agony. Where a desperation you’d never even known you’d had boils abruptly in everything pulmonary, consuming your aortas with absolute _ urgency _. It was one agony into another. Where the notion of love is so far-fetched that the possibility of it sends you reeling into hysteria. After the dazzle you either land on your feet or wake up from the coma, hurting from the whiplash and dementia. 

"Then secret's out." Harley pulls out one of the chairs and sits back down, crossing her legs and tapping her nails on the table. The click is heavy into the wood, followed by the snap of her gum between teeth. Harvey flips the coin, glancing briefly at the result before pocketing it back into his trousers. Blue eyes follow it briefly, deviating back to her fidgeting hand on the table. "Why else would she spend three years of her life running on your heels?"

_ We need to talk to her. _

_ We need to forget we ever heard it. _

Harvey reels. To hear his counter express the desire to talk? Uncanny. 

"Leave, Quinn." They agree on one thing. All the nuisance does is stand abruptly, chair skidding back from the motion. She takes long strides and angles to look up at their height, her tone carrying an underlying hostility that matches the dark of her lipstick rather well. They invited her in...the attitude should have been anticipated. 

"You gotta guarantee you won't hurt her. She's still healing from whatever the hell you did last night."

"That wasn't intentional," Harvey defends. 

"I've heard that before." _ Broken glass. Fractured bones. Manic laughter. _

"Thought she stole from us," Face mumbles, eye wary of how to look at the good doctor. 

"So ya bust her face up half as bad as yours?" Harley shakes a finger at them, other hand on her hip. "You got it good, having a girl like her waiting on you two. It may stem from an obsessive compulsive disorder, but she's pretty considerate for a bank-robbing murderer."

She starts her walk to leave, grabbing her tote bags off the table with a swift arm. The decorative key-chains on the handles rattle across the tabletop as she drags them mid-stride to the elevator. "Remember how much she's invested the next time ya think of smacking her around. And if you still think it's worth it, account for how small she is. She can't take a massive hit like that without major damage. She ain't built for your caveman brutality, shitbag."

"Fuck off, Harley." They say it half-attentive. Not really aggressive, more in thought. She maintains a glare, backing into the opening doors. They hadn't known. But it makes sense. She left her life behind for their agenda. And in the heat of the moment, the day she decided, it all flowed together so simply. Naturally. Her presence had been so consistent that the transition felt organic. They hadn't known she'd stayed for such a…specific reason. 

"Oh. That reminds me." Harley jams her finger again and again at the elevator button, doors closing at a snail's pace. The click of each press grates on their nerves, perpetual and without hesitation. She's a bit red in the neck at their exchange, brows creased and shoulders hunched. "_ She's a virgin _."

The doors close. There's a *ding* before they watch the numbers panel begin to descend. They're quiet, thoughtless with one hand still hosting their weapon and the other flipping the coin absentmindedly. 

They hadn't known that, either. 

* * *

They hear her humming something. Soft. Old. Broadway-like. In and out with words, simple and faint. They hear it barely through the doors. They hear her past the click and flip of the lock and handle. 

"Face?" They watch her turn towards them the second they enter. They shift the grenade launcher further onto Harvey's shoulder before setting the duffel bag onto the kitchen counter. The sounds of their actions are abrupt, like harsh contrasts that echo in the room compared to her tone of voice. Sharp. Modern. 

She has her arms crossed gently, hands open on her forearms as if she were chilled. Her feet are bare. She's in an oversized ‘Tree Hugger’ graphic tee that was clearly once Ivy’s, hair damp and unbrushed. She has none of that gaudy makeup on anymore. Nothing covering the clear damage done to her face. She looks spent. One of her eyes is swollen and so bloodshot red that they think maybe her sight could be affected just from how it looks. The coils of red around her iris concern them, little broken vessels that are harshly apparent against white and brown. 

"Yeah," they respond curtly and turn their attention to the kitchen. They set the weapon down, unable to look at her without feeling something. Whether it be guilt or want. Conflicting things that burden one another. Her cheeks are still flushed. She's red in her face and neck, lips parted in question as she makes a steady walk towards them, hands painfully idle on her forearms. Glassy eyes. She's tired. She should be. Tired of this lifestyle. Of them. 

She closes the distance so naturally. Like always. Like they hadn't just put her through hell. Like she shouldn't be terrified of them. She smells like wine and rosemary. 

Her hands start adjusting their tie. She loosens it, undoing the knot and pulling the garment from their collar in a slow, single motion. She is certainly drunk, because she leaves the garment on the floor. They've never witnessed her tolerate clothing on the ground, much less watch her put it there. She's forgotten it entirely, hardly focused as she undoes the first few buttons of their shirt, fingers light in fixing the lapels and somewhat mechanical from routine. She’s done this a million times before. Not once did it instill tension as it did now. Her knuckles barely brush their neck, and they tense at the contact, eyes wandering from her jaw to her collarbone. She wanted them. That's what Harley had said. She'd claimed to be tackily in love with them. Them, plural. 

_ The chances? _

_ Should be none. _

"Long night?" She asks and stretches her palm and fingers against their chest, her other hand pinching at the edge of his sleeve, limbs weighing from the alcohol. Their body goes rigid at the casual touch, both uncertain. This was not usual. 

"Something like that." They want to kiss her. Run their hands down the small of her back. Feel her smile against their damaged, contemptible mouth. 

_ We need to leave. _

_ We fucking stay. _

"Food in the fridge, if you want it." She runs her hand across the fabric, palm flat against their chest. She leans forward, her cheek pressing firm against their arm. She sighs into them, barely audible. They mostly feel it. The pressure of her chest. Her breasts against their abdomen, shifting with her breathing. 

They flip the coin. She doesn't even notice. 

Heads. They stay. 

They forget how small she is. How ridiculously short and curvy. She looks so impossible when she's toting guns and money, bullet-proof vest bulking her up. She looks so much stronger when she's working. But in her bare feet, several inches closer to the ground, barely maintained and done up, hardly covered...she looks fragile. Even more than in her usual dresses and heels. Face thinks it's a weakness. Something scum could exploit if they set eyes on her like this. Harvey isn't thinking at all. He only remembers the night before, on loop. The sounds she made when they threw her down. The cracks from her body. They forget they could kill her. 

"Yeah." Face doesn't even remember what he's responding to. Harvey isn't there to remind him. 

"Where's Harvey?" She's talking as if she didn't know his better half would recess, still inebriated. As if she didn't know what the hell she was doing. As if she couldn't feel the abnormal pace of their pulse with her cheek now pressed so firmly against their chest. She's tapping a rhythm into Face's bicep that mimics the thud of their heartbeat. Face wonders if she's conscious of it or not. 

"Thinking," Face says. 

"About?" She asks, blinking slow, eyes trained directly in front of her as they take a steady hold of her wrists and lean her off. She stands on her own, painted toes curling against the flooring. Her tongue runs against the corner of her mouth. Face follows the motion intently, hesitant to set their thumb in the same place. He doesn't. 

_ This isn't fucking fair. _

"None of your business." They take a step away, but she leans back in, her forehead firm on their shoulder, her toes holding her upwards at her maximum height. Tense again. She wants an answer. Because she almost never needs them to tell her. She reads them like a goddamn book. But this time she's uncertain. She's uncertain and shitfaced, barely holding her balance. 

"You're acting like Harley told you." She laughs a bit, her smile spreading against their clothing. They can feel her jolting at each exhale. She's chuckling. It's bittersweet. 

Face wants to hear her laugh. When's the last time they heard her laugh? 

Last heist. Stolen squad car. Bullets flying. She was grinning like an idiot, body jolting violently from the recoil of her M4. She gunned down their target hostages. 

"Told us what?" Face sets a bait with no expectations. Their hands are firm on her forearms, thumbs mindlessly rubbing circles against her skin and they assess her odd behavior. 

"That I'm in love with you." 

Silence. It's a long silence. She's humming again, her fingertips fumbling with the wrinkles of their sleeves. She can feel him staring at her. Harvey's not around, she thinks. Face stands so much straighter when Harvey's not around. Where does Harvey go? He goes so often. She wonders if he avoids her. Or if it has nothing to do with her. She feels them chuckling dryly against her cheek. A bitter laugh. A cold one. Something that would normally tell her to be cautious. But caution is far from where she's standing. There is no caution in the haze that she's stumbling in. 

"That the wine talking?" Face asks, coarse and rugged and disbelieving. 

The wine? She did have wine. That's right. Harley gave her wine. But wine doesn't talk, nor make her dedicated. She still likes the wine. Then again, wine didn't wear expensive suits or say suave things. Wine doesn't have deeply interesting discussions on political affairs, nor does it violently crave justice in a corrupt political system. Wine doesn't get so jealous as to throw her into a vanity. It doesn't rob law-bending capitalists or gun down pigs. Wine doesn't smell like bourbon, gunpowder and cologne. It doesn't make savagely humorous remarks on others, and certainly doesn't hold her the way she was being held now. 

The tightening of their grip sobers her a bit. She can still feel the liquor pull up at the edges of her lips. 

"No," she's tired. "Just me."

* * *

End Chapter Nine.


	10. Stay

Their first action, resulting from the finalizing toss of the coin, was to immediately send her to the spare room and to go the fuck to bed. Because she clearly did not have any grasp on what came out of her mouth, and she clearly had no ability to think critically. Their second was agreeably to rifle through the kitchen until they found liquor, no coin toss needed. And the third, thankful that there was some kind of bourbon, was to drink it, not measurably enjoying it. Again, no internal debate, no coin toss needed. 

The next routine is simple. Throw the glass in the sink, re-cork the bottle, place it out of reach from other residents for self-preservation, then sleep off the irregularities of the evening. Standard practice for a DA, much less a criminal. 

They're sitting at the edge of their mattress, both somehow absentmindedly trying to maintain the burn in their throat from the drink. Harvey's thumb swiftly runs across the page corners of their book. The flicking noises of the pages are consistent, edges bending only slightly as they run through them again and again. They're not reading it. The paint of the furthest wall has their undivided attention, somewhat accompanied by the sounds of crisp corners as they mindlessly fidget. 

They listen to their door creak open, the slight noises of her toes on wood barely audible. They sigh, equally expended from her earlier remark. She stands in the doorway a moment, watching them stare off into nothing like the Arkham days. Where there's little from the cell wall and the distant sound of screaming to maintain attention. There's a similar feeling they could compare it to; trapped. They toss the book aside into the sheets, running the coin between their knuckles as distraction instead. They don't acknowledge her. They're stemming as always, coin reflecting the light a particular way. 

"You're avoiding me," she says. They commanded her to bed fifteen minutes ago, on the brink of another mental break. Yet here she is, undermining and still running around in that gaudy shirt and no pants. There's a specific laughter from her, which is immediately a perplexing, archaic sound that takes them to years prior. She saunters to the edge of the bed, clearly still drunk. An unnervingly familiar sound coming from a very alien sight. 

"Harvey hates it when you drink this much," Face mumbles it, flipping the coin with a metallic ring before moving the book from his side to the nightstand. Harvey's wedding ring is there, moved further into the center. She _ would _. And Harvey immediately retreats. Because dealing with his divorce is not something he ever did well, and dealing with a drunkard of her provocative nature did not relieve any of the negativity.

"Do you?" The look she gives tells them she knows it’s only Face for now. He clearly wasn't discreet about it, regardless. She laughs more audibly, falling gracelessly to her knees and leaning against the foot of the bed opposite to Face, fingers curling into the comforter. They hear the joints in her knees crack against the flooring. They wonder if it hurt, considering the bruises. 

"Don't care." 

"_ Liar _ ." Face fumes at that a bit, simultaneously noticing that she'd even cleaned up the broken bits of furniture they'd damaged. She cleaned everything in her shit condition. Makes him think more on what Harley had said about a compulsive disorder, considering little things over the last three years they’d never cared to notice. But now she's on their floor, in her underwear, taunting them something _ fierce _ . _ Mocking _them in her own way, all smiles. Even more lax and carefree than she'd ever been sober. 

"You're right. I fucking hate it too," Face bites back, the unnerving wideness of his eye critically avoiding her direction. 

"I'm never like this," she defends. She stretches her arms in their direction, nails scratching at the comforter, hair sprawling out as she leans further into the bed. Her knees never leave the floor. Their hands never leave the coin. “Not even before.” 

"We know." 

And Face prays to god that the conversation is fucking over. That she'll go back to fucking bed and they can just lay down and be pissed until morning. Her voice is grating solely from their want to consume it. Her laughter is punishment in the sense that she has to be drunk for them to hear it. They want to reach out to touch her, yet for an odd, inexplicable and somehow idyllic reason, they absolutely cannot. For a reason that they presume is born from shadows of old professionalism and self-respect, they keep their hands at their front, eyes forward, and posture stiff. Their focus is painful and solid on the coin. They relish the slight sounds the metal makes as it runs across the knuckles of Harvey's hand. 

"I want to talk to Harvey," she asks, suddenly standing before them. Abruptly invading their personal space, alcoholic stench prevalent. They don’t move or retaliate. Her hands are gentle, stilling their own from the endless spiral of distraction and compulsion, touch light and fingertips freezing cold. She halts their stemming. She falls to her knees in front of them, eyes red and face still regrettably damaged. 

"You know we fucking hate that-"

"I promise. It's important. Just Harvey." They go rigid as she runs her hands up their neck, touch fluttery, breathing shallow and rapid. Partly alcohol, partly lack of distance. A new definition of insanity, with that same face of patience and serenity she wore routinely. A new side of her they’ve never seen, and perhaps one they never want to experience again. She has intent. She _ knows _what she’s doing. She sees the death-grip on the coin. “It’s about before.”

Before. Before _ him _. That’s what she’s getting at. And normally he'd never agree to allowing Harvey complete control. But they're both inexplicably tired, and an escape from her advances in her current condition would do him good. Harvey likely knows how to handle her sensibly, unimpaired by poor judgement. They don't have to flip the coin when they agree on the answer. Face flips it anyway. And she gets why she wants regardless. 

"You owe me." ** _Me_ **, he says. Face, not Harvey. An individual term. Her head barely wraps around it. Her lips are curled at the edges and her tongue runs across her teeth in though. 

"Okay. Anything." Because the word anything is something far more flippant and insignificant under the spiraling, heavy weight of intoxication. Sensibility screams this. She ignores it. This is easier. Everything is easier in this state. Everything is _ smaller _ when she’s this _ largely _impaired. 

She watches the grip on the coin falter. She watches everything soften. She sees the physical vulnerability in his posture. And the guilt is immense. And her lightheadedness begins to turn dizzy. The glow is now a sinking weight. The flutter is more of a suffocation. But she should have expected this. Seeing his demeanor...inundated...imprisoned in his own body...she forgets how nauseous it makes her. She forgets that Harvey often lives in the past and is tormented daily by his current state of mind. She forgets that they were good people once who had good, righteous intentions. She forgets that she'd bring him pricey coffee and frozen yogurt despite his hesitancy to a 'diet ice cream'. She remembers a brush of fingers handing him documents. She recalls the subtle linger of his hand on her shoulder. Specifically, she can't forget that Harvey _ never once _ expressed interest in her. 

"You've been quiet,” she says. Her fingers are an even lighter touch on their neck. Careful, suddenly feeling the caution she'd evidently lacked just moments prior. 

"It's been a long night," he nods into the response. Just Harvey. In full control. An occurrence so rare that she hardly remembers the first time it happened. He holds lightly at her wrists, gentle to direct her hands off their skin, forcing her to stand up off the ground and take a step back. He forced distance. She deserves it. 

"I'm sorry." 

"Not your fault." They both know it is, though not entirely. Not directly. But somehow it is. It's the way the room feels. The mild tension. He stands, straightening his posture, hands going to button their coat before realizing they hadn't worn one that evening. Casual. She forgets that he can be happy in modern day. She forgets that he can still be respectful and content; she gets caught up in the both of them when, contrarily, either are perfectly independent and capable of separate peace of mind. 

"I'm sorry. We did this." He sets a slow hand to her cheek, thumb running across the blotchiness of her complexion, palm only briefly fleeting the scarring of her jaw. 

"Part of the job." She's back to her 'barely enough' answers. Her eyes are less wild. She's coming down off the high. The redness of her face intensifying as she slowly recounts her actions in the last hour. 

"It shouldn't be."

"I miscommunicated."

"Regardless." He retracts the touch. Like a sting. She makes excuses for his other half as she always has. She defends him, as though it were her purpose. _ Reasons _ with him. _ Adores _him as she has since the beginning. 

"Okay." Submissive to him. He enjoys when she bites back. When she shows moxie. Rare occasions. When she left, it enticed Harvey as much as it panicked Face. Her choice of independence was riveting. Her desire to ensure she was a clean act for them to use was just as thrilling. 

He has mixed emotions, with or without his worse half. 

"Do you remember the first time we formally met?" He sits back down at the edge of the bed, asking as he watches her hands fold at her front. Her fingers fidget, responsive to his rejection. Harvey props a leg up, heel of his shoe on the bed corner, arm bending over their knee for leverage. He starts to take off their watch. Lax. More lax and informal than Face, oddly. A stretch of his brief freedom. 

"More than a greeting?" She'd been introduced to him twice before he recalled her name. But the first time they'd actually spoken? 

“Yeah.” 

"Dinner at Pinovino in uptown.” Her attention slides across the floor, recalling the details with an irregular ease. A nice view of the coast. They all ordered the special. Pasta. A vodka sauce. She swallows, brows pinching at the memory. She looks dazed. “We all had the special.” 

“Bruce ordered the scallops instead." Because of course he would. Harvey sets the watch on the nightstand alongside the book and coin.

"We were celebrating." He sees her mouth pull into a slow smile, eyes heavy from fondness and booze, hands tightening at her front. "70% approval rate on your win." 

"You'd just turned twenty one. Your license was still vertical when you ordered that finger of Midleton." He barely laughs. She remembers his laugh. She hears it rarely now. Face laughs often. He laughs at everything. But not Harvey. She remembers a time he laughed at Gilda's Christmas party. Over coffee with Bailey's and something sweet that had recently come from the oven. A rich laugh. A very natural one that drew in a room. 

"I barely remember," she admits it lowly, brows pinched in an attempt at further recollection. But everything’s fuzzy in the moment. She bites her lip. Something she does so often that they noted it's beginning to scar. 

"I was impressed you knew what Midleton was. Much less to order it neat." He father’s cultivation, no doubt.

"I met Bruce that night." He only smiles at that. Face would have disregarded the comment entirely. Everyone always remembered Bruce so fondly. But perhaps Bruce being outed to the public as Batman makes the memory more...substantial. Perhaps Bruce being dead and yet Batman still plaguing the streets forced the memory to be significantly stronger. 

"He came late," Harvey says. He wonders how Bruce functions now. He wonders what it was like, killing off his other half. Validating only _ one _personality. He chose a single mind and lifestyle. He wonders if it inspired Face to do the same. If his destructive side would one day realize the potential…if Tuesday would allow it. 

"I heard you criticize him," she interrupts his train of thought, shaking him back to the original memory. Cold air. A pressed suit. Gilda's burgundy cocktail dress. The click of heels across the balcony. The way evening was colored on the horizon from their table at the balcony. 

"About his plus one. She was half his age." Harvey mumbles, realizing himself to be in a rather similar situation, though not of the same severity nor his own volition. If things had gone Harvey's way, they'd be alone. 

"You and I…talked forever about your campaign demographics. How we manipulated the marketing to fit that criteria." Harvey vividly recalls those discussions. His notes on her methodologies and dynamics that'd assisted in his approval rates. Hours at that overpriced place, drink after drink. Gilda had nearly begged him to go home.

"You say it like it was a bad thing." He has the tendency to talk about the past as though it hadn't burnt up into oblivion. 

"I enjoyed all of our talks. I started to enjoy your company more than hers." She bites into her lip mercilessly, and Harvey tenses. Because that sounded like guilt. It sounded like _ another confession _. It sounded like something she'd tell his other half, rather than him. "It wasn't supposed to be this way. She was supposed to come back. But Face...Harv, he's-"

"He had you day one." He sighs, and she takes a moment of silence to respond. Because he wasn’t wrong. 

"Between your sentiment and his...rash methodology? Of course." His sentiment. Her hands are wringing. She's shifting from one foot to the other, standing on the balls of her feet, mimicking her heels. He can see a barely notable tremble in her leg. Their eyes follow the bruises that litter her thigh. They run up until Harvey diverts their inspection back to her face. Drunken concern. Lack of focus. 

"I just didn't know how bad."

"I don't understand." Eye contact. Consistent. She won't break it. Harvey hates it. A part of him hated _ her _ once. So much that it stewed into resentment. He blamed her. Face embraced her. Used her to their advantage. Profited off of her loyalty. Yet here she is, all this time later. Not only used, but beaten for her negligence. The first time...yet she's still standing here, barely clothed, insinuating something. 

"Your shoulder was dislocated. Your eye looks worse than when Nightwing knocked you into that lift at that Bludhaven refinery. Your skin’s purple on half your damn body." He gestures to her, seemingly fed up. 

“It's temporary.” 

“You shouldn’t be here," he contends. She's making excuses. Like this wasn't physically detrimental to her. As though she didn't look like a job gone wrong. 

"Here?"

"He was afraid you were going to run again. After yesterday."

"Run?” She swallows.There's a fear to running. Running meant being alone. Running meant permanently abandoning the choices that destroyed her civilian life. Running meant being like her father. Her voice breaks on the word before she finds some semblance of composure. “I didn’t run. I had to resolve things with Sions."

"And did you?"

"Temporarily. Regardless, my-...my issues can’t be your issues," she reassures, tripping on her sentences. She turns entirely, shutting him out promptly, eyes scanning everywhere to get a better grip on the unsteady conversation, where words seemed to careen and surge and she couldn’t keep track. 

“After three years they _ are _ our issues. We wanted to pay the six.” 

“He wanted to _ kill _ me.” She grits her teeth, and her hands cross at her front, suddenly defensive and loud. “He flipped the coin _ on my life _.” 

“You’re contradicting." Her shoulders tense. He wonders if she’ll start to sober up. Harvey asks passively, intentionally with a low tone to keep her steady. "Are you mad that we were going to kill you, or are you so in love with him you’re going to stay?”

Her blinking is rapid. Silence. She opens her mouth once or twice, posture growing lax. She's thinking slow for a change, mulling over the words in her head. She rocks from the balls of her feet to her heels, nearly unsteady. Harvey seemed angry in his question. 

“Why can’t it be both?” Her brows pinch, and she looks at the shaded window, focused on nothing in particular. "Why does it have to just be him?”

"_ Don’t _ .” She's crossing lines. Insinuating more. Asking him for more than she has. More than he wants. Less than what _ Face _wants. 

“Gilda asked me to stay. So I stayed, and I haven’t asked for _ anything _since.” Her left hand is firm against her chest, and he stands abruptly at her warped rationalization. He towers over her. Harvey in an aggressive stance...it looks...different. Somehow contrasting to the contentious posture of Two Face as a whole. Less tense. Less brash, even if the intimidation factor maintained with the severity of their scarring. 

“You’re asking for something now because you're drunk.” He points a finger, hands clearly desperate for _ something _ . A cigarette or a drink. Something less compulsive than the coin. There's a shaking to both wrists. A slight tremble that she can easily compare to withdrawls. There's this pained look to his face that burns her in the moment, searing past the booze and dizziness. To think that Face has become so inherently necessary...or perhaps she was jumping to conclusions. Perhaps Harvey was just _ that _ pissed off. 

Her hands are delicate to reach out, slow and cautious as she wraps her fingers into Harvey's palm and about his wrist. She stills him, as patient as always, with eyes running up the length of his forearm, hand inching upwards across his skin. He doesn't say anything. Even as her fingers travel just barely out of sight, running beneath his rolled sleeve past the crook of his arm. Right...perhaps she's making quick assumptions. But Harvey alone, years ago, would never lose authority of his limbs. He was DA. The world never saw his temper. Not at a podium. Not in a courtroom. There was no visible anger unless he intended it. Those moments were a nearly violent performance each time, but done with purpose. She wonders, only briefly, if the old Harvey were capable of the violence she endured now. To think it was all Face was not entirely unreasonable. 

“I'm asking now because you tried to kill me," she mumbles in a light breath. "And I still don't want to leave.” She realized that if she were to ever want to leave, it would have been now. If she would have ever wanted to run, it would have been after physical violence. But that hadn’t occurred to her until her talk with Harley. Instead, her thumb runs circles into a prominent vein before he pulls back abruptly. Her eyes maintain the floor and her hands fall gradually back to her front. The swift gesture made her immediately nauseous. 

"Jesus Christ, Tuesday," he responds with judgement. He judges her for loving them. Does he not think they deserve it? Does Harvey think they’re undeserving of affection? Or does he simply think she's damaged? 

There's that cynical pinch in their brow. The refined creases at the edge of Harvey's eye. The barely present snarl that truly defines that half expression of aversion. And the other half is just the unnerving glower. Relentless scrutiny, exposed muscle and tendon. Less judgemental, somehow. Face never judged her. Never held her at arm's length, desperate to keep her there. Never thought of her dedication as sickness or delusion. But he never empathized with her. They threatened to kill her. They physically hurt her. 

She sways at the rejection and her own mental retaliation. Her head tries to wrap around the destructive details, but everything is so. fucking. blurry. She sets each hand over each eye, inhaling deeply to steady herself despite the downward spiral that furthered the nausea. She's slow to recognize her poorly decisions. Slow to realize that Harvey thinks she needs help. Slow to connect that Harvey is in pain as he always is. 

"This isn't what she wanted for you," he says. 

_ What the fuck does it matter? What Gilda wanted? For her of all people? For us? _

_ You wouldn't understand. _

_ I understand that she's here. She's _ ** _been_ ** _ here. And where the hell is Gilda? _

"I know," she says, breathing deep, hands steadily back at her front. 

"We don't blame you." **We**. Face is back. Short-lived independence. She wonders how it works. If it's entirely consciousness or only responsiveness. She trips on the thought, digressing in and out of her internal derail. 

She sighs. "For Sionis?"

"For what happened to us," they clarify. For what they are now. For what happened to Harvey. For what she _ didn't _ do. 

"How could you not?" She takes a step back, her balance still tremendously unsteady. She inhales through her teeth, pressing her lips into a flat line after, assessing the lines of the wood flooring as she recalls the easier days. She remembers the rainy evenings at the icu, when she’d read to an angry, faceless man, concealed in bandages, on Gilda’s behalf. Heels off, curled up in those god awful guest chairs, praying that his wife would walk through the door with flora and good news. 

She never did. She couldn't handle it. 

"It would have been this way with or without you. Just less enthralling,” they sneer into a light laugh. Coarse, damaged and thick. She smiles, somehow on the verge of tears, swallowing back the desperate urgency to cry. 

They didn’t want her to cry again. They didn’t handle it well last time. They never handled it well with Gilda, either. Not even Harvey’s girlfriends in college were manageable in tears. But Tuesday had never seriously cried in the six years he’d known her, much less the three they’d spent harassing Gotham. And maybe that was the difference, alongside the recent changes. Sionis being entirely unable to mind his _ own goddamn business _ entirely ruined their routine. For three years they advanced with little to no communicative conflict, capable of playing the untouchable cat and mouse game without really _ playing _the game. But the imperious freak had planted a seed of distrust by engaging her. And their own misperception resulted in violence, which then resulted in a realization of dependency and desire. And they fucking hate it. 

"You promised me anything,” Face recalls, stepping forward, domineering. She flatens from her toes to her heel, only slightly withdrawing from his advance. 

“I don’t remember.” They can’t tell if she’s fucking with them or if she genuinely is lost to her aftermath crash.

“You don’t leave us again.” It’s more of a barely articulate invocation that she thinks is meant for themselves. But she sees the implications, indicative of their abrupt hold on her and the notable lack of distance. Her blood is rapid, though she’s uncertain if it’s their lack of proximity and the smell of their cologne, or simply the flighty light-headedness that muddles her comprehension. 

"Only if Harvey..." She shakes her head out of skepticism, hair yet again a tangled mess that flops with the movement. She closes her eyes a moment, tight in her attempts to blink away the tired and the stars. 

Their hands are firm yet consoling against each side of her neck, thumbs on her cheeks, holding her attention. The scarred flesh of their thumb runs just beneath the line of her eye, cautious of the bruises. The feathery slight of her lashes is a gentle sensation, and she blinks back into reality as they skim them. She swallows to resolve the dryness of the throat. They can see the shift in her neck, watching the gentle rise and fall of her collar bone as she breathes, slow to lean further into the affection. But she’s still hesitant, barely reciprocating their gestures.They edge closer, intimate and expectant as they mutter to coax. 

"Do you see us flipping the coin?" 

She closes her eyes to think, listening to the brief start of rainfall outside. They way it hits the windows. They way the wind picks up. The slightly ragged sound of their steady breathing. She can’t think. So she closes the distance, careful to stretch upwards, desperate to try and meet their height and somehow maintain her balance. They can hear her pulse. Feel it racing under the tips of their fingers. Quick. Intoxicated and nervous. Face keeps their grip, pulling her closer, accommodating to her diminutive stature. But it works. It’s a gentle press of her lips that would affirm their absolute weakness. They reinforce the contact, and it sends a keen restlessness through every vein and ever thought. 

But it’s brief...and specifically soft. Been a while since they had a woman that was soft. Maybe Gilda. Maybe that expensive redhead that hangs at the club off the corner of Maine. Nonetheless, this was different. This felt like the gradual spread of fire. Something built up with time and restricted predilection. Something built off the breaking point of self-restraint; finally answering the questions they've asked a million times about her taste and tone. 

They take a mindful glance at her, entirely flushed, radiating heat off the speckled skin of her cheeks and nose. She looks radiant, still bruised and tipsy. Their fingers coil into her hair, firm and urgent as they re-initiate the contact with a more severe disposition. She feels like a goddamn fever. Her lips compensate for their scarring, light and feathery, stained and sweet from the wine. She makes a noise, brief and content. She moves against them, mouth parting, slight gasps of rapture as her fingertips curl into their chest, nails digging into the fabric. Her shoulders radiate heat. Their hands find contentment beneath the collar of her shirt and the base of her neck. She's small. As small as she was yesterday, when they threw her around, yet just as capable as she was two months ago, offing choice hostages at the bank. Her tongue tastes like that cheap shit she'd been drinking and sweetness from the kettle corn. One of them is suddenly obsessed with the small of her back. The other captivated by the absolute mess of her hair. They prop her up, pulling her closer, with focus varying from her mouth to her jaw to her neck. 

They want this always. She asks them to promise for always, even as there's a lull from intensity to contentment. Face mumbles absolutes into her hair, less eager and somehow more cordial. He alone mutters heat-induced apologies and guarantees, fixated on the bruises and swelling. She passes out before there's anything more, uneven, damaged breaths soft against the rugged and disfigured crook of their neck. They put her to bed, somehow still resentful and bitter toward nothing in particular. Somehow still skeptical, burned thumb tracing the textures of the coin. She mumbles that she wants them to stay, barely cognizant and halfway into her pillow. She asks them to come back from the doorway, hardly audible. She tells them that she loves them, on the brink of unconsciousness.

And in the morning, she locks herself in the other room, pretending that it never happened. 

* * *

End Chapter Ten.


	11. Reciprocated

They slept like shit, and they’d had no sight of her since rousing. There was only evidence that she’d been recently up. She left food on the kitchen island before retreating into the spare room. There was a pot of coffee ready and a pan in the sink. The grenade launcher was idle beside the stack of cash on the coffee table, looking absolutely ridiculous in its domestic environment. The accompanying duffel was missing entirely, likely abducted into her room once she realized it held her laptop and belongings. Plus the covered plate of food, with three smaller plates stacked beside it. And they hadn’t disturbed it at all until Duke and Miller knocked to report in. 

Face leans against the counter as they listen, rolling their sleeves into mid-arm cuffs. Their men sit at the kitchen island, keen to relay the anticipated route of a bank truck out of a Sionis Industries mill. Their morning had been early, both sets of tired eyes darting between the untouched food and their boss mid-conversation. Eggs and peppers, vibrant in color and browned on the edges. The room smelled like money and breakfast, and it’d have been wildly cruel to deny either at least one of the two. 

“We had two sets of eyes on every other corner from the steel mill all the way until Braxton. Some pedestrians, some in stores to report in once they had visual on the truck. Route came from the mill, down Main Street, turned East onto Central, crossed the bridge, then made a left into Washington after three miles. Little street called Delilah at the edge of the industrial district was the last,” Duke emphasizes with his hands, mocking the road directions. 

“We didn’t follow. After Delilah it was crawling with Mask’s guys, well-armed. We think they stopped at the old Burlington warehouse to switch out transports. Then four different vehicles left at different stints. These ones were unmarked. Either they split the load or only one was real," Miller affirms the idea by jamming his index finger into the counter every few words. 

“Spotted a couple of Penguin's guys scouting the warehouse ahead of us. Had a slight altercation. Might step on toes," Duke motions to the seeped bandage on the other man's neck. The unnerving stare of Face’s eyes consider the damage, quick to run through the most likely scenario. 

Face grimaces in response. “We’ll talk to Cobblepot. This is a personal vendetta on Sionis. He'll back off.” 

“This about Tuesday?” Miller braves the question, curiosity peaked. The unnervingly intense glower from his boss is a clear warning, and he makes himself busy by rubbing at the bandage, expressing discomfort. 

Two-Face leans forward against the kitchenette, arms crossed and dress shirt undeniably wrinkled. Harvey’s hair is still damp from their morning routine. They can't find their fucking eye drops. Their brat of a right hand has opted for regret and isolation in her room. And now they have to make a goddamn house call to Penguin. Everything's a goddamn mess. Sionis playing his sadistic games on their girl has truly fucked up their entire operation. Enough to force their hand into outlandishly drastic and uncharacteristic decisions that cost them money.

_ We made those decisions. _

_ And they were shit decisions. _

_ You wanted to just kill her instead. _

_ Never said I wanted to. _

“It's about territory. All business.” They shove the plate of food forward as permission, and it takes less than a second for Miller to rip off the foggy plastic wrap and start tipping out servings on the little extra plates. 

“Where _ is _Tuesday?” Duke asks, grabbing pieces of egg with his fingers, lacking utensils. 

“This needs salt.” Miller’s barely audible past the mouthful of food. 

“Sleeping.” They leave it at that. Even if they’d heard her shower running just fifteen minutes prior. 

“Probably needs it. She looked like shi-...” Miller stops, his eggs suddenly dry as he reassesses his sentence. He doesn’t look up from his plate. “...like she was exhausted.” 

“That’s twice you almost died today.” Duke laughs under his breath, shoulder quick to nudge the other as a tease. Miller clears his throat, agitated. 

The bedroom door opens and gently closes, a consideration akin to the fear of rousing others. She walks out, her damaged eye is less swollen and now well concealed by makeup. She looks relatively normal, arms and legs covered entirely, wearing black pants that were rolled at her ankles several times over. Unusually, she wore an earthy green blouse that was too long, accented by those ridiculous heels she'd come in the day prior. They're certain now that the clothing Harley brought was Ivy's. He'd seen the now deceased woman in the same outfit once years ago. Nonetheless, her heels click as she aims for the front door, adjusting a tote bag over her shoulder in the process. She presents a brief smile in their general direction, attention directed on the exit. 

"Where the hell are you going?" They ask, and she hastens her pace. 

"Warehouse. I need my router."

"For _ what _?" They inquire further, their tone sour enough to force her to stop and turn in their direction. They feel the agitation bubbling up. 

"I need my setup," she says. Evasive. Minimal. An excuse. 

"What the _ fuck for _, Tuesday?" They push themselves forward off the counter, standing at full height now, arms still folded and tone cross. It pissed them off. They’re not her father. She’s not a child. 

"I have a rootkit-" 

"A _ rootkit _ ?” They hack a laugh. “For what _ fucking reason _?" 

It’s the third time they have to ask her for an actual answer. She’s looking anywhere but at them. She wants nothing to do with them. After all that talk hours prior, after all those confessions, after they finally give into even the slightest of their physical demands, she plays the dumb card. Now she’s avoiding the topic with such a painful desperation that she’s running out the door. 

They manage to exhale. “When did you even learn how to put a rootkit together?” 

"I don’t. It was pre-written by Fade.” 

“What’s a rootkit?” Duke asks. 

“A malware program to set up an undetected intrusion.” She swallows, teeth digging relentlessly into her lip. “Fade had it pre-installed on an unused device. That way when I run it, I can locate him."

Duke bristles. “Why didn’t you just do that before?”

“It's a last resort that may not even work. I thought I could manage this independently before. I can’t now.” 

"You said it was temporarily handled." Face goes on the offensive, and they watch her _ shrink _ . She _ lied _. 

"It _ will _be." Her hands are wringing the tote bag, her heels clicking the wood incessantly as she shakes her leg anxiously. Her teeth are drawing blood out of her bottom lip. She’s deflated entirely from the comment, swallowing down her intentional reserve of information. 

"You're not leaving."

Harvey’s hand snaps, and Duke is up immediately, Miller busy minding his own business by burying his face into his eggs. Duke’s chair skids as he turns to face her, hands out as if pleading. "C'mon Tues. Don't make this bad." 

"I need the router to encrypt my data once I active it. I don’t know if he’s able to backtrack to my location." She takes a step back, stare something awful towards Duke. She still won’t look at them. There’s an anxiety building in her chest that’s reverberating into her limbs. They can see her trembling from their distance across the room. 

_ She doesn’t remember last night. _

_ She does. She regrets it. _

"Outsource it then. That shit was never your strong suit,” they digress. “Let it go. We can pay off Sionis." 

"I can't make up for that in a heist.” She grimaces. “You have no idea what I’m doing." 

"Doesn't matter. You don't go on heists anymore." Face cracks their neck and rolls their shoulders, standing straighter and stepping forward. Nonchalant. They don't have the energy to start another argument, much less the desire to remind her that _ she _ has no idea what _ she’s _ doing. 

“What?” She takes a literal step back, hands still twisting at the tote bag. 

“You don't do the dirty work anymore. You run the numbers and get floor plans. Rent spaces. Access security. We don't want you on the ground. We have to revise operations with Sionis involved.” 

“Why?”

“You're a vulnerability. And right now a liability.” 

“Face...I have to go.” And now she’s pleading, struck by the realization that any compromise is out the door. 

“We’re saying you stay. _ Coin _says you stay.” The coin runs across Harvey’s knuckles, back and forth. It vexes her. It’s unfair, played to their convenience rather than the notion of chance that they were typically obsessed with. She grits her teeth, the pit of her stomach knotted and sinking at a drastically fast pace. That look that Duke is giving her, alongside the absolute self-satisfied look on their face. That look that tells her she did stupid things the night prior. The expression that tells her she’s said poorly things and even poorer actions. She feels flustered, which was unusual and unanticipated, comparable to the panic she’d felt after he'd irreparably damaged her only nights prior. She’s losing control, she realizes. She’s in a desperate place. She inhales shakily, a flush running up her arms and over her shoulders. 

“Then send someone to get my shit for me,” she counters, a redness she rarely feels that breaks her patience edges at her vision. She can feel the weight, little cracks in her demeanor the result of being cornered. Her jaw is tense, limbs trembling. She can feel the agitation and anguish crawl up her skin and go straight to her head and chest. 

They counter immediately, expression a concoction of displeasure and complete surprise. “_ Watch _ your _ goddamn mouth _.” 

They almost reel, body language entirely adjusted to their clear indignation. It was more forward, aggressive...like when they’d hurt her. She feels as cornered as she had they day they’d held a gun to head. And she forgets that Duke is in the room. And she feels like everything she’s worked for and sacrificed has amounted to absolutely nothing if she doesn’t _ just leave the fucking loft. _ And her head hurts and vision is blurry and...she realizes she’s having a panic attack. She needs to get the hell out. 

Tuesday turns around, her back to them entirely. She inhales, and then takes a step towards the door, heels snipping at the tile with a set destination. She immediately hears their pursuit of her and her breathing is inconsistent a_ nd she feels the ache of her injuries and she thinks of her father and exactly why after everything she’s decidedly endured why _ ** _now _ ** _ she’s falling apart. _ Why, after _ everything _, is she all messed up over last night? It’s Face’s scarred, severe hand that has a death grip on her upper arm, holding her back. They pull her close, turning her to face them. 

“You do _ not _ do this. Especially in front of _ our _men,” they reprimand. 

She has no words, and it takes several verbal attempts for her to finally even realize they have a hand on her. She looks from their face to their neck, eyes entirely unfocused. They assess her demeanor, her rapid breathing...her uncharacteristic lack of composure. She blinks a few times; they wonder if she’s even aware of the situation. She goes lax when they loosen their grip, inhaling deeply while their thumb runs a gentle reassurance up her arm. Harvey remembers this. Gilda would have anxiety attacks. Mostly during the holiday season. 

“Okay,” Tuesday gives. 

“Room. _Now_,” they demand it, but they see her coming back at a slow pace, more conscious of her own absence. She’s insanely red in the face and neck. They can barely feel a tremble from their grip on her arm. It concerns them. 

“I-”

“Room now or we shoot Miller in the foot.” Harvey’s free hand pulls the pistol that rests at the arch of their back and aims it directly at the other man’s soles, his heels perched upwards from the edge of the stool. Miller’s forehead makes a short trip to the granite counter as he sighs, forcing his food away dejectedly. 

Tuesday exchanges a look with Duke, ringing her hands at her front before making an immediate retreat to the main room. Her heels echo like a tantrum on the wood. She tosses the tote onto the counter by the money. 

"We'll go, boss. Have to head there anyway." Miller nods, standing from his seat and heading to the sink with his plate. 

"Just bring all of her shit. It's not much," they grate out the words, concealing their weapon in haste. 

"Yeah. Will do."

And Duke does nothing but release the breath he’d been holding, eyes following Face as they tail their girl into the bedroom.   
  


* * *

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” It comes off more hostile than they had planned, but, then again, there was little time to think from the kitchen and the hall. 

She doesn't answer. She’s leaning against the wall by the window, watching the fog and the suddenly intense downpour. She's calmed a bit, the former redness less than a mild pink on her face. Her shoes are kicked off, discarded by the door. They wonder if it’s a sign of defeat, or rather an indication that she doesn’t rely on her height and stature to win an argument. Likely the latter. They let the frustration dissipate, exhaling raggedly and adjusting the rolls of their sleeves.

“You don’t know. You have no idea what you’re trying to play with. Drop this Sionis bullshit. Whatever he offered, it never ends well for anyone _ but _Sionis,” they recount from experience. And she admits that they’re right, but...the opportunity is...too grand. Too worthwhile. 

Hey eyes dart back and forth out the window, surveying the view. Everyone always told her to consider her future. As if she ever cared for it with her father’s reputation or her mother's inconsistent lifestyle. Rather, this was the opportunity to consider Harvey’s. Perhaps fix the damage she may or may not have inflicted, though Harvey himself seemed insistent that she held no responsibility. She wonders if it’s arrogant for her to think she’d been so crucial to his downfall. Or maybe it’s a warped sort of justification that allows her sleep. 

“I need my router.” She crosses her arms, leaning heavily against the sill of the window. It’s a large window, she realizes. The ledge off the sill could easily seat her on days like this. Tuesday likes the idea, trying to think of anything other than her drunken escapades just ten feet across the room from the night prior. “I need to finish things with Sionis.” 

“No, you don’t.” 

She glances at the bed, heart clenching with embarrassment. Her arms tense and pull closer against her chest, defensive. 

“I promised last night I wouldn’t leave.” There’s a long silence that’s strictly rain and the diluted sound of traffic down below. She briefly glances in their direction, unsurprised by their complete lack of expression. Their fully exposed eye, still mildly unnerving, is relentless, regardless. When she looks back to the rain, they use the opportunity to approach her. They take a lengthy amount of time assessing her; she’s missed a good amount of her hair when braiding it. Her wrist is still somewhat purpled, which may be a correlation. Foundation covers the damages done to her face. They can barely see her freckles from their distance, though her unintentional look of exhaustion is apparent. Her body language is tense, shoulders up and fingers curled in her crossed arms. Their burned hand is gentle to move loose strands of hair behind her ear, the knuckle of their index finger briefly running against her cheek. And she feels better, regardless of the argument. She deflates a bit, withholding any verbal indicators that her seemingly endless amount of patience was finally running thin. 

“We figured you didn’t remember. You never hold your drinks well.” 

Not a lie. So she doesn’t respond. But they’re expectant of her, for some odd reason that she wishes wasn’t her fault. And she’s hesitant to the point of paralysis, despite the absolute burning that’s running across her skin and pooling somewhere at the base of her ribcage. 

“We want to hear you say it sober,” they taunt. Because that’s what all this is. A huge taunt. Because things are complicated and she's absolutely in love to the point of physical agony. And all it took was a gun to her head and a face into a vanity for her to realize how absolutely fucked and damaged and poisonous all of this is. But if neither of those pose as any sort of disincentive, then she supposes this must be genuine. Because _christ_ does it _ache_. And _god_ is it _real_. And even the slightest thought of a life without them can bring her to fucking _anxienty_. Prior to yesterday it was all unconfirmed. She’d help them day to day, plan heists, pull news, find targets...and everything was relatively normal, if that was a usable word given circumstance. She thinks it was because she hadn’t realized the gravity of her commitment nor what it meant...because she’d never thought anything would be reciprocated...because _Gilda_. But last night was..._definitely_ _reciprocated_. 

Her thoughts are a mess. She avoids looking at them entirely. There's constant anxiety boiling in her chest. She can’t think straight, so only stupidity leaves her mouth. “Nothing has to change.”

Their actions are often swift and violent. Either volatile in nature, or slow in caution. It surprises her at their sudden lack of aggression. How slow Harvey's callused hand is as they fit it comfortably under her jaw, forcing her attention upwards. They watch her assess their expression. Her eyes are notably warm in color and, most significantly, undamaged; which had been imperative at the beginning when their sight had considerably suffered along the burns. They wonder if it still unnerves her. Their eye. Their grotesque disfigurement. The bits of visible bone. Their agitation grows the more they dwell on the idea. That she regrets before because they are absolutely _ rancid _ to stare at. That she's a light weight and her senses are poor in the company of wine. Their hand tenses against her neck and jaw. The calluses of their fingertips are a drastic contrast to her skin. The little scars that run along her cheek bones are far more vivid among the freckles this close. She has on mascara and they think it's tacky. Her heels. Her outfits. That stupid practiced smile. They both thinks it's all a front. That the display of being refined and put together is a facade. She's a fucking mess. Just like them. 

“After last night you expect nothing to change?" They ask, the focus on her face diverting their aggression. Harvey's thumb is firm on her bottom lip, pulling it forward to run the edge of their nail along her teeth. They feel the slightest moisture of her tongue and the stick of her lipgloss. And she stays entirely silent, eyes lit with something that falls between shock and panic, maybe hectic confusion. Her breathing is shaky with her face being entirely flushed in the same moment. 

She doesn't respond. “We need you to say something. Anything.” 

She thinks they're right. Because she was incompetent and intoxicated and restless and irresponsible. Because she thinks Harley told them the truth, but she also thinks she may have told them as well. She wants more. More than a physical fling. More than a one night stand. Beyond killing men and laundering money and assassinating the broken wealthy. And they seem to be offering it. It strikes her oddly to think that they reciprocate. It makes her lightheaded to know. 

"Okay.” She says it clearly against their thumb. Her teeth space wider for the briefest of moments when she speaks and they have half a mind to take the opportunity. She watches them flip the coin in their free hand, clean side up. 

“Okay what?"

"I don't regret it." She sounds small while she admits it. Smaller than usual. They can physically feel she's terrified despite her answer, yet again reading their concerns like an open book. They can tell she's swallowing hard and blinking back frustration. Her pulse is running wild as they lean in lower, if only to feel the full effect. They both realize, looming over her, that she's tiny and defenseless and...not strong. She's soft and round in good places, but untrained and untoned. And if Tuesday didn't have such a resolute mental capacity to kill or defend herself, then she would have nothing to save her at all. If she were to ever lack a firearm...she would probably die. 

They don't like where their thinking is in the moment. Torn between uncharacteristic concern and an almost volatile inclination to kiss her. 

But it doesn't matter, because her skin is as red as the blood she's bitten from her bottom lip. And the teeth punctures and ripped skin move briefly against their finger as she purses her mouth against it. Her hands cautiously run up their dress shirt in her usual manner, as though to assist with a tie or buttons. But she stops, and she leans forward, balance just barely unsteady as she strains her ankles to stand on her toes. 

It's a hell of a sight. This irresponsible, stubborn, patient woman that's urging them both to close a distance. Very unlike Gilda, who was wildly intelligent and irresolute, and could be eager to a fault. His wife was blonde and toned, tall and graceful and merciful. And Tuesday is only mentally resolute and walks loudly like the brat she is. She's graceful on occasion, strictly with a gun. Contrary to their selfless, loving wife, Tuesday's a judgemental murderer; with an intent to destabilize the underground criminal conglomerate of Gotham per their own desperate demands. 

And yet...the same desire to protect and maintain was effervescent. It took Sionis threatening their compromise and her drastic actions for them to realize that it was more than a simple affinity or physical motive. They recognize their own inclination, heightened by her confession. And they _ want _ it. More than Face alone had _ always _ somewhat _ wanted _ it. When they flip the coin, it lands in their favor; a smooth side up that is hastily forgotten when they drop it on the floor. Fate says that they can have it. Chance says she's theirs. 

It made Face physically _ frustrated _. 

It made Harvey emotionally _ want _. 

"You know we love you." They mumble it, distracted, watching a flush crawl up her skin and under their hand. They can feel how absurdly warm her face. She's thrown by their admission. So she closes her eyes to avoid their proximity and scrutiny, brows pinched. 

Face enjoys seeing her loss of composure this intimately. Harvey likes seeing the dimension of her eyelashes up close. She's not shitfaced this time. Somehow the sincerity of their encounter is more appealing. Their fingers _ burn _against her skin and press further into her pulse. When they finally kiss her, it's a slow action, because the idea is still somewhat outlandish and she's still bruised and fragile under all the foundation. They maintain their thumb on her mouth between their own, as though it were a boundary to test her responsiveness. She inhales, tense against the interaction. Her hands are curling into the fabric of their shirt, knuckles white. Her nails scratch at their skin through the cloth, catching at the buttons. She leans backwards as she begins to slowly plant her feet, and they follow her downwards, somewhat desperate and angled and heated by everything she does. 

Harvey's thumb slips away from her mouth and under her jaw as they finalize the contact. They kiss her firmly and impetuously as if this was the last opportunity. Their free hand finds her neck under her absurd blanket of messily braided hair and holds her against them with a severity that bordered peril and desperation. They needed her this way, like they needed her in every way. And she needed them, because she is absolutely ruined without them. That ruin is of her own volition; she made that decision, incapable of questioning her life without them. 

Her mouth adjusts perfectly to their damages. Her lips are brief against the exposed teeth, finally lacking her previous hesitation. Tuesday's hands crawl up their neck, fingertips running vertically along scarring and burns. Her touch is continuously cautious, somehow comparable to the first day she'd helped Harvey change his gauze. They can feel her nails run lightly across their skin. They can feel her mouth open slightly as they angle further and further into discomfort if only to taste her _ more _.

They can feel the rapid response of her pulse, frantic almost. And when they grip a fistful of her hair, they take advantage of her gasping and run the edge of their tongue along her damaged lip. Her verbal responsiveness reassures them and they delve deeper, damaged eye assessing her expression of contentment. It reminds them of her demeanor before the Sionis mess, also mixed with her hesitant disposition years prior to her downfall. Her hand wanders through Harvey's hair, nails lightly dragging against their scalp, reminding them that she's in their grip in the very real, very present moment. She smells like a sweet cosmetic and tastes like relentless addiction. There's the slightest bitterness of iron from the blood of her lip and the slight tackiness of her lip gloss. Face wants to draw out more. 

When she separates for air they relish in how stunningly out of breath she is. She looks like a godsend with her mouth the way it is, hair a mangled mess that's soft and tangled between their fingers. They kiss her again. And again. They kiss her until she's backed into a wall. Until their hands are holding her in perfect place, thumbs on her cheekbones as their fingers continue to firm into her jaw and neck. Until she's absolutely at their mercy, mumbling their names interchangeably as they trail their mouth to each of her closed eyes and then against her hairline. Harvey is cautious, and gentle. Wary of their own disfigurements against her skin. She inhales deeply, as through a relief overwhelms her. And they do the same, taking in the scent of her hair. They rest their chin on her head, still somehow accommodating her height. 

Her fingertips run slight lines from the back of their neck to their collar bone, toying with the pointed ends of their shirt collar. Her right hand runs down Face's arm, fingertips running across the fabric and then his scars. "I love you."

She doesn’t know who she’s talking to. She doesn’t even know if it’s both. She just knows that she does. 

* * *

End Chapter Eleven.


End file.
